


Seventh Crow

by AlphaFlyer



Series: Agent, Archer, Widow, Spies [4]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, Gen, Where Was Clint Barton During Captain America 2?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 15:58:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8539249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaFlyer/pseuds/AlphaFlyer
Summary: "One for sorrow, Two for joy ..."  A long life in intelligence has taught M one thing above all:  Criminal organizations are like ticks embedded in the skin of humanity; you may think you have neutralized one, but you can never be sure you got the entire thing.  What remains causes disease to take hold and fester.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inkvoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkvoices/gifts).



> This is my third **MarvelBang** and my third Avengers/007 crossover (see [Second Mouse](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1009635) and [Locust Wind](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2512529). It’s also my third collaboration with [Inkvoices](http://archiveofourown.org/users/inkvoices/pseuds/inkvoices). 
> 
> A word on the story: My Bond/Avengers ‘verse skewers time as liberally as it does bad guys, and revels in the artistically crafted plot holes of the 007 franchise. Timewise, this one fits between _Skyfall_ (in which Judi Dench’s M did not die, because sheesh, what a waste!!) and _Spectre_ on one hand; and in the week or so between the Steve-in-the-hospital/Natasha-in-Congress scenes and the one in the cemetery at the very end of _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_ on the other. You don’t have to have read the other stories in this verse (of course I'd be happy if you would!), but it would help immensely if you’ve seen the movies…
> 
> A word on **Inkvoices** : Due to major RL issues I couldn’t get this story done last year; even this year, I just managed it by the skin of my teeth. Through it all, Ink was incredibly patient, as well as a source of inspiration, calm, support, and Oxford commas. Sending me bits and pieces of art to keep me going, based on vague directions of where I thought the story was headed. When I got the video, I nigh on exploded with happiness - ask my daughter; it was my inspiration not to give up and stick to short fluffy pieces for the rest of my life. This story would not exist without you, my friend. It is yours. [Please visit her incredible art here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8541751) and leave a kudos - don't forget to watch the video in Chapter Two!
> 
> Immeasurable thanks to Inkvoices (again!) and JRBarton for betaing this behemoth. All remaining bugs are mine.

_One for sorrow_

_Two for joy_

_Three for a girl_

_Four for a boy_

_Five for Silver_

_Six for Gold_

_Seven for a Secret_

_Never to be told…_

 

(Trad.)

 

 

  

 

**One**

 

_Barton_

 

The speed with which things have gone to hell in the last couple of hours is unusual even for Kaliningrad.

The Kaliningrad Oblast is a geographical and political hiccup by anyone’s standard. Cut off from Mama Russia and labeled a “Free Economic Zone” (a fancy-ass way of saying _free-for-all_ ) it basically runs on corruption and organized crime. Throw in a port that was once home to the Soviet Baltic Fleet – complete with nuclear subs - and proximity to some of the largest weapons stockpiles on the planet, and the whole thing is an arms dealer’s wet dream.

None of that matters to Clint Barton right now, though, busy as he is, sprinting for his life through the docks, dodging bullets and trying to avoid the potholes in ashfold that hasn’t been fixed since the days of Stalin and Khrushchev. A turned ankle can bring you down as fast (and just as ingloriously) as a ricochet from one of the metal containers, something he learned the hard way. 

One thought he does allow himself, though: _What the hell happened with Peterson?_ One moment he’d been giving him cover, the next …

The STRIKE team, under Clint’s command, had been deployed by Sitwell to blow up Igor Lubishchenko’s shipment of Russian-made missiles, supposedly earmarked for the fanatic-of-the-month club in Iraq or Syria. But judging by Peterson’s antics, the target has suddenly shifted, and is now none other than Clinton Francis Barton himself.

_Question: On whose orders?_

Clint is still trying to wrap his mind around the moment he’d heard the _pop-pop_ over the comm, then turned to seen Gupta topple over - good guy, relatively new, but with potential - while Peterson was training his gun on _him._ It was only thanks to years of training that Clint had short-circuited the _what-the-fuck_ delay that Peterson was counting on, and managed to roll and fire off an arrow at the same time. Exit Peterson, his erstwhile backup, taking all sorts of answers with him.

Almost immediately, the bullets had started flying again – all apparently SHIELD issue, from the STRIKE team Clint was supposedly the boss of. Not a Lubishchenko goon in sight.

So, seriously: _What. The. Fuck?_

And what about Kumar Gupta? Promising recruit, sent to K-grad on a supposed milk run to learn from the best. _Not_ to be killed by a guy they’d had breakfast with that morning. 

 _Fuck._  

The comm yields nothing but static, and Clint does a quick tally. So far, everyone who’s actively tried to kill him has been from Rumlow’s cohort. Gupta had been one of Hand’s trainees, as had Gomez, who’d been tasked with guarding the rear. Best to assume Gomez is a goner, too, and that the whole shebang is compromised. Wholesale paranoia never hurt anyone, if people are actively out to get you.

Clint rips the comms clip off his ear, careful not to dislodge his hearing aid, and stomps on it. _Track this, fuckers._  

He turns and heads for the nearest building in a loping gait, but is stopped by a hail of bullets – two shooters, minimum. He presses himself into the flank of a rusty crane and reaches for his quiver. 

With the op obviously blown to rat shit there’s no more need for subtlety. Clint nocks one of his explosive arrows, aims high, and draws at half-strength. Who says you always have to hit straight on target? Sometimes it’s good to respect the classics, and go for the old-fashioned Agincourt lob.

The arrow flies up and curves in the air, falling behind the towers of containers his teammates-turned-pricks are using for shelter. The resulting explosion causes a good part of the stack to topple in slow motion. If the explosion didn’t get them, those forty-foot boxes will… 

Clint decides to make a dash for it, and here’s hoping that Lubishchenko’s gang doesn’t decide to get in on the act. If there even _is_ a Lubishchenko – maybe the whole thing was a frame job? Well, there probably is an arms dealer or two in this neck of the woods, but they’re going to live and fuel conflicts for another day. As are Petzold, Thompson, and Jones, and the other members of the STRIKE team. Can’t be helped.

At the far end of the dock there’s a boat, one of those things port workers use to move between docks. It looks like a real prize even in the barely-there light of a waning moon, but beggars can’t be choosers. Clint undoes the fastening and jumps.

There’s a guy asleep in the thing, his head on a pile of ropes. 

“Sorry, mate,” Clint huffs as he unceremoniously heaves the man overboard and starts the outboard motor with a couple of quick pulls. “Nothing personal.” 

The man curses in Russian but seems otherwise okay, smartly heading for the dock already. Judging by the _eau de vodka-and-vomit_ smell in the boat, it’s probably not the first time he’s taken an unexpected swim. 

The silhouettes of two figures emerge at the top of the dock, and Clint briefly abandons the rudder to nock a pair of arrows. Bullets whip up the black waters of the Baltic Sea and there’s an unmistakable dull pain as one of them grazes his right arm.

 _Fuckfuckfuck._ At least it’s not a major artery, or the bottom of the boat.

He lets fly through the pain, two arrows at once, and the two shooters disappear from view. Turning his attention back to matters of navigation, Clint points the small boat straight out to sea.

Sometimes, life comes down to a few very simple goals: get out of bullet range, tie a rag around his throbbing arm, and hope there’s enough gas in the boat to get to Poland. (Assuming, of course, Poland is still somewhere to the left and hasn’t suddenly shifted position like everything else.)

And then, somewhere down the line, he really needs to figure out what the hell is going on.

 

…..

 

Clint’s arm is throbbing rather nastily by the time he gets to shore halfway up the Vistula lagoon, hotwires a car - Polish license plates, yay! - and gets himself to Gdansk.   Mercifully, the car he’s swiped is an automatic, so no need to operate the clutch.

Poland, now happily ensconced within NATO and the EU, remains a useful way station in a neighbourhood still rife with the fallout from the collapse of the Soviet Union. There’s a safe house in the city where he and Natasha had once holed up for three days after some flap in Belarus. Clint thinks he can remember where it is, somewhere near the main square - beside a bakery that sells decent croissants, if memory serves.

Of course, when he recognizes the building, there are lights in the window. Someone’s home, and chances are they’re not his kind of people.

Clint glances at the newspaper he’d picked up in a gas station. Splashed across the front page is a photograph of two helicarriers – new design, but definitely S.H.I.E.L.D. hardware – hovering over a smoking Triskelion, with a third face-forward in the Potomac. For good measure there’s even a sidebar photo of Steve Rogers. Even without him being able to read the caption, the photos tell Clint that the Kaliningrad op isn’t the only thing that’s gone to shit. It doesn’t take a trained analyst to figure out that there’s something seriously wrong with S.H.I.E.L.D.

 _What about Natasha? Fury? Hill?_ Something tells him that they, like him, would have been at the receiving rather than the giving end of recent developments; contacting them directly may not do any of them any favours. 

For now, flying solo is the best option. 

Priority: _Arm_. Right now, being Hawkeye is all he’s got and for that he needs two arms. The wound needs looking after, but that’ll cost money. The safe house will have an emergency stash of cash, plus surgical tape to hold things together if he can’t find a doctor. 

So, lights or not – he’ll have to go in. 

Climbing in over the roof is not an option. Clint can ignore pain with the best of them, but he’s not an idiot and does know how to factor his own weakness(es) into a tactical assessment. Lifting and drawing a bow will be hard enough, without adding in a round of parkour. 

He rings the doorbell, a single arrow in his left hand. 

The guy who opens the door is someone he’s vaguely familiar with, Pulanski or Podinski or something. The series of looks racing across the guy’s face when he realizes who’s standing before him includes neither pleasure nor relief, and he reaches for his gun before even saying ‘hello’. Clint wastes no time sticking an arrow into the man’s throat. Ounce of prevention and all that.

Pulanski or Podinski gives a quick gargle and drops, Clint slowing his fall with his uninjured hand just enough to avoid a major thud. He slings his bow off his shoulder, nocks an arrow with a grimace and steps over the body, which makes a rather useful doorstop. 

“Who is it?” A voice he doesn’t recognize – coming from the little sitting area to the right. 

“Your basic nightmare,” Clint snarls, steps into the apartment and lets fly. 

He makes a quick security assessment of the joint before stashing the bodies on the balcony. Looking at corpses isn’t fun at the best of times, and this sure isn’t the best of times. Besides, it’s cold for this time of year, so they’ll keep for a couple days. Finally, in a gesture that smells of idiotic defiance even to himself, Clint puts on a pot of coffee before tackling his wounded arm. 

There’s a med kit in the kitchen, helpfully marked with a red cross and the words “First Aid” in English; a mostly full bottle of Polish vodka on the coffee table in the sitting room is an added bonus. Clint takes a deep sip of his coffee and takes off his shirt, carefully peeling away the sleeve where drying blood has stuck the fabric to his wound. 

 _Fuck, that hurts._ He’d intended the vodka as a disinfectant, but the fresh blood surely merits a swig? 

Luckily, on a spectrum of battle injuries that includes ‘ _possessed by a god’_ at the upper end and a paper cut at the other, it’s not too bad: the proverbial flesh wound. Clint debrides and cleans the deep scrape - there’s actually real disinfectant in the kit, in the form of sterile wipes - and proceeds to stitch it up, missing Natasha’s clever hands with every pull of the thread. But, eh. No sense in dwelling, best just to get on with it. 

“Good enough,” he mutters as he inspects his handiwork, before bandaging the whole thing up. He experimentally stretches and bends the arm and yeah, it hurts, but what with the tensor band over the stitches at least it shouldn’t open up again. Clint grabs a couple of pills that look like Advil and washes them down with another swig of vodka - reward for a job well done. 

The TV in the apartment is one of those bulky box things from the Early Jurassic, but it gets CNN, BBC, and a bunch of middle-European stations. Those helicarriers (all in the Potomac now, together with much of the Triskelion by the looks of it) get wall-to-wall coverage, including the full pundit treatment in a cacophony of languages: “ _Secretive government organizations and security? A recipe for disaster!_ ” “ _Aren’t these the same people that set up the invasion of New York?_ ” “ _Unknown, uncontrollable, unaccountable power – who watches the watchers?”_

But even though Clint knows enough to discount two-thirds of the hysterical shouting as speculation, disingenuous ‘ _it-has-been-reported-that…’_ hearsay or deliberately planted misinformation, it’s pretty clear that the world he has known for the last decade and a half has ceased to exist. 

And it’s just as clear that the fewer people know where Clint Barton is currently holed up, the better.

A sudden noise on the balcony startles him, and he lunges for his gun before he recognizes the hoarse cry for what it is. Not another Hydra operative, but a big, black bird – a crow. _Carrion eater; how appropriate._ The golden ring of the bird’s left eye fixates on him for a moment before it loses interest and flaps off with a lazy stroke of its wings. 

Clint eyes his S.H.I.E.L.D. satellite phone as you would a four-days-dead piece of herring. Calling Stark is a possible answer - both to get real information and exfil (JARVIS knows everything and Stark has his own planes) - but the phone is probably infected with whatever bug brought down S.H.I.E.L.D. Maybe even a tracker – should have ditched the thing much sooner. _Damn_. 

He opens it up, takes out the battery and simcard, runs a pot full of water, and brings the whole shebang to a boil. Watching the battery pop and leak acid into the water is oddly satisfying, even if it stinks a little. 

Time to grab some shuteye; it’s been an eventful day and a half. Good thing there’s vodka; he takes the bottle into the bedroom. Thankfully, the assholes who stayed there don’t appear to have used the beds yet; Clint hates getting into used bedding almost as much as he hates changing sheets. 

Despite the exhaustion, the meds and the booze, he spends an unproductive half hour scanning the ceiling for answers. He finds only images of Natasha, crushed under a downed battleship, until sleep finally takes him.

 

…..

 

Morning comes with grey skies, a fine mist of rain, and no further answers. 

At least the closet has a decent selection of clothes in a variety of sizes, including the one Natasha always insists he should buy. He rips open a package of underwear, and picks out a clean-looking pair of jeans and a grey Henley shirt that covers his field dressing nicely. 

Once he’s gotten inside a set of clean clothes, and outside of a fresh pot of coffee and some croissants from the baker next door, Clint feels human enough to contemplate next steps. None of which, obviously, include contacting anyone in S.H.I.E.L.D. 

Time for another scan of the news. According to increasingly informed news reports, things seem to have turned a corner into a mirror universe. Alexander Pierce is reportedly dead - no loss there, Clint never could stand that arrogant son-of-a-bitch. But so, reportedly, is Nick Fury. Clint decides to suppress the sudden constriction in his chest, pending first-hand confirmation, but spends an unpleasant couple of minutes nonetheless. 

 _Fuck you, Fury._  

Politicians who only last week were eager to lounge under the umbrella of S.H.I.E.L.D. protection, are now enthusiastically declaring it a ‘terrorist group’. Covert intelligence, it seems, is increasingly regarded as a threat not a solution, and the braying for accountability is deafening – at least as long as it brings in the votes. 

One thing stands out to Clint above anything else: The name being mentioned in the same breath as S.H.I.E.L.D. is a familiar one: _Hydra._

 _Fuck_.

…..

 

Twenty-four hours of laying low and a nasty exchange of gunfire later – seems like Thing One and Thing Two missed a check-in call with Momma Snake, or else that sat phone really did have a tracker - and Clint has made it to Warsaw. 

He is standing in front of the Embassy of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Maybe not the smartest move, but he’s fresh out of options, needs some kind of passport and really, really wants to know what the fuck is going on. And don’t the good folks of MI-6 owe him a favour or three by now? 

Clint takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders and presents himself to the security guard. The guy is a local, which complicates matters, because it means that Clint needs to swaddle what he wants in layers of diplomacy, pretending there’s no such thing as an intelligence station in that nice, genteel office building. But thanks to repeated episodes of involuntary immersion, he speaks the language of obfuscation almost as well as Natasha. 

“Hi, I’d like to talk to the head of your political section,” he says to the receptionist with his biggest, most innocent smile and a serviceable Scottish accent. “I don’t have an appointment, but it will only take a few minutes of his or her time. It’s about those helicarriers in the Potomac.” 

Unknown visitors apparently do _not_ merit the head of the section, even if they claim to know something about the latest news. _Especially_ if they claim to know something about the latest news. But ever since 9/11 it’s become awkward for governments to be seen to ignore information, and so Clint is given his five minutes. 

From the second secretary to meeting the Station Chief takes a lot longer and far more words than Clint likes to waste, but still, he can’t really blame the Brits for not welcoming him with open arms. These are trying times in the intelligence world, and who the hell would trust some random guy who’s walking in off the street, even if he does know how to use words like “Five Eyes”?

Eventually he does get through to some person whose business card just says “attaché”, the general euphemism for _we-can’t-really-tell-you-what-that-one-actually-does-but-let’s-both-pretend–he’s-a-diplomat-so-our-spooks-can-do-business-with-your-spooks._ The guy is all business though, and resolutely refuses to let Clint into the secure area of the embassy.

Clint knows his time is limited; every word counts, so he gets straight to the point, discarding the Scottish accent in the process. 

“US colleague. I need to call in a solid from MI-6,” he says to the guy, who wears his pinstripe suit like someone who’s never been out in the field. 

“And from whom, specifically, may I ask?” the man asks blandly, with a strong undercurrent of ‘ _Say the wrong thing and there’s the door, my dear chap.’_  

Clint has had enough time to think of a useful answer to that question, what between looking after his injury and driving around rural Poland. Invoking M’s name would get attention, but not necessarily the right kind. Silly moniker aside, the head of MI-6 is a known quantity; thirty seconds on Google will get you a hundred photographs, transcripts of committee appearances, dozens of photographs, and endless articles about the time when that nut bar blew up her office. 

Bond? Chances are he’s out saving the world somewhere in Outer Slobovia, under an assumed name, with some deadly dame by his side and in no position to take phone calls. 

No, there is only one person in MI-6 in whose availability Clint has the utmost confidence and who should be at her desk at times like this. Plus, invoking her name has the added advantage that no con artist would know about her existence – instant cred. 

“Moneypenny,” he says, looking the guy straight in the eye. “Eve Moneypenny. In the Director’s Office. Tell her … tell her Circus Guy could use a safety net.” 

 

 


	2. Two

_Romanoff_

 

“You know where to find me.”

Natasha snarls her contempt at the assembled politicians and elbows her way through the horde of media bloodhounds, all of whom are braying to get a piece of her. The only reason she is merely _contemplating_ homicide, rather than re-enacting the Chitauri invasion for the cameras, is the fact that security wouldn’t even let a spiral-bound notebook into the Capitol these days, not to mention her Glocks.

The hearing had been convened with unseemly haste. Congress clearly needs to be seen to be doing something; whether that something is actually useful is apparently irrelevant, provided it’s broadcast live on prime-time TV. Natasha had answered question after leading question, none of which had been designed to actually elicit a substantive answer - let alone uncover the truth about Alexander Pierce and the gradual undermining of S.H.I.E.L.D. by Hydra.

No, in the perpetual election frenzy that is US politics, members of Congress love nothing better than to suck in a few more votes or a few thousand campaign dollars with phrases like “protecting ordinary Americans,” “accountability,” and “tough on terrorism”. And, of course, the most telegenic outrage comes from men who consider it perfectly fine for white males to carry assault rifles into a Wal-Mart, but would deny women access to reproductive health care. 

Natasha is still seething about being made party to this latest act of political masturbation when she finds herself face-to-face with Maria Hill. Maria must have been loitering in the hallway for the express purpose of hustling her into a non-descript, unmarked black car, even as flashbulbs continue their assault on Natasha’s retinas. 

The driver is wearing an honest-to-goodness chauffeur’s hat and Natasha relaxes a fraction at the sight. No covert agent would be caught dead wearing one of those things. 

“Happy.” She nods a greeting that manages to mask her relief at seeing another familiar figure. “Nice to see you again. Train much these days?” 

Tony Stark’s chauffeur and general factotum peers at her in the car’s interior mirror. His face bears scars Natasha doesn’t remember. 

“Physiotherapy mostly these days, Miss Rushman… _Agent Romanoff._ My days as a boxer are over I’m afraid.” 

Before Natasha can inquire, Maria mumbles a perfunctory apology and closes off the divider between driver and passengers. 

“Sorry to interrupt Old Home Week here, Agent.” 

Natasha’s ears prick up at the use of the epithet. Not a rescue then, but a new mission? Hill continues without skipping a beat. 

“I’ve been using Stark’s tech to track S.H.I.E.L.D. agents affected by the collapse. We’ve lost several dozen in the last few days – Hand, among others. And that was _after_ the helicarriers went down.” 

Natasha stills, her anger suffocated by a sudden blanket of ice. 

“What are you saying?” 

Maria holds Natasha’s eyes with her own. 

“Hydra is continuing to eliminate our people, Natasha.” 

Natasha’s mouth is dry when she asks the question she knows Maria must have expected. 

“Clint?” 

Maria shakes her head, slowly. 

“We can’t find Barton. He went on an op to Eastern Europe, with a team that was mostly composed of STRIKE members. Rumlow’s cohort. He’s been MIA for three days. Completely off the grid and no chatter of anyone claiming a kill. I don’t suppose you’ve heard from him?” 

Natasha knows she is probably expected to say something dismissive, such as _Sorry, I’ve been a little busy,_ or _I’m not the Hawk’s keeper,_ or even just _Barton can look after himself._ But she doesn’t. What she says instead is, “No.” 

Maria lets out the smallest of breaths, and now Natasha does feel the need for sarcasm, almost as if Clint’s voice were whispering in her ear: “ _Hill. You actually care. Who knew?_ ”

 But her voice is all business, even as the needle of the Washington Monument recedes in the rear window. 

“Where in Eastern Europe is he supposed to be?” 

The days of top secret, need-to-know missions are over; Maria answers without hesitation. 

“Kaliningrad. To take down an arms dealer.” 

 _Of course._ What else? These days, drug deals are chickenfeed - seed money, to finance the far more lucrative arms business. 

Something clicks. Natasha grabs Maria’s arm. 

“Who sent that team to Kaliningrad with Barton? Because Hydra isn’t into decades-old Soviet scrap. That’s all they’ll find there: Another Potemkin village; rumours created by Putin to make himself look more dangerous and connected than he is.” 

Maria, as usual, is quick on the uptake. 

“You think that op may have been staged to eliminate Barton?” 

Natasha nods, even as she tries not to think too hard about that last bit. Instead, she turns over possibilities in her mind. What’s close by, that Clint could use as a refuge? Preferably in a NATO partner state? _Vilnius? R_ _ostock? Warsaw?_ If he is still alive, he’d know where to go. And if he isn’t … 

_Don’t go there._

“My guess is Warsaw, if he can get into Poland somehow. Gdansk isn’t far away enough; he hates Rostock, and Vilnius is too obvious.”

Maria’s voice is cool. 

“We tried Warsaw. No answer from the safe house. It might have been compromised.” 

Well, it’s not like Clint would answer the phone if he knows people are out to kill him. 

“That doesn’t mean anything.” 

“True, but it does make him untraceable. Any other bright ideas?” 

Maria doesn’t say, ‘ _Assuming he’s still alive, of course.’_ If she believed him dead, she wouldn’t be here. Clint will surface eventually. _Has to._  

The car turns into Foggy Bottom and up Virginia Avenue, and Natasha decides to change the topic. Something’s been niggling at her ever since she left the hearing room, and it’s better to think about that than... 

“ _A propos_ arms deals. Weapons cost a lot of money.” 

Maria turns her head slightly at the _non sequitur_ , but waits for Natasha to explain herself. 

“For three hours I sat in that committee room,” Natasha says, her voice low but very clear. “Answering questions about how S.H.I.E.L.D. could possibly have been as compromised as it was, why there were suddenly three helicarriers in the Potomac, and whether I agreed that Nick Fury must have been asleep at the switch.” 

The unmistakable façade of the Watergate Hotel comes into view now, just past Happy’s head. 

“Think about it, Maria. An F-16 costs $165 million. Quinjets come in at $250 million a pop. There was a complex under the Triskelion the size of the Son Doong cave, with enough infrastructure, hardware, electronics, and personnel to make Cape Canaveral look like a Tupperware party. Not to mention the helicarriers themselves. We’re talking _billions_ of dollars here, not millions.” 

Outside the hotel, a taxi queue is snarling up traffic. As they sit there – Happy’s lips mouthing inaudible but easily readable curses - a burly black man with white gloves lifts suitcases from the trunk of a black sedan onto one of those gold-and-red-velvet hotel luggage trolleys. There’s a discreet, not-quite touching of hands, and a folded bill disappears into the bellhop’s voluminous overcoat. 

“All these Congressmen were so deeply concerned with how S.H.I.E.L.D. needs to be held _accountable_ for what happened here in Washington. Three of them sit on the Appropriations Committee. You do know what that Committee does, Maria?” 

Maria gives Natasha one of her patented looks. _You think I’m an idiot?_ But she seems to know that the words need to be said.

“It determines government spending.” 

Natasha takes a deep breath and nods grimly. 

“Exactly. And not one of those men who sit on that Committee asked me a single question about where the money for Project INSIGHT came from, or who authorized it.” 

She looks Maria in the eyes. 

“Why do you think that is?”

 

…..

  

_Bond_

 

There will never be enough martinis in the world, Bond admits to himself with a sigh, to drown the memory of this particular cock-up. 

He pops the clutch and guns the engine, ignoring the spray of pebbles thrown up by the tyres as the car takes off. A shotgun blast shatters the rear window – luckily the car is a rental; any damage is on Her Majesty’s taxpayers, not Bond’s own account. A small cloud of lead shot embeds itself harmlessly in the back of the passenger headrest. 

It’s a long way down the mansion’s long driveway, and Bond (very) briefly allows himself a moment of regret for his little indiscretion with the statuesque brunette – even if her cleavage had been beyond spectacular. _Willing, curvy, adventurous, immensely talented with her tongue…_  

The century-old oak ahead of him explodes in a spray of bark as it gets hit by something of a rather higher calibre than normal, and Bond dodges around a falling branch. 

Maybe Moneypenny has a point and he should be a bit more _discriminating_ in his approach to women? 

MI-6 had arranged to get him into the rather exclusive weeklong house party on one of Britain’s oldest estates, with a view to ferreting out the latest in a long and dishonorable line of blue-blood traitors to Her Majesty’s government. In hindsight, shagging the Viceroy’s daughter might not have been the smartest move.   

M will have his hide, despite the USB stick in his dinner jacket. 

Like many a stately home sold to foreign oligarchs, this one comes with a set of ancient iron gates, now operated via a new-fangled remote control system that’s not quite capable of lifting all that history in one go. The gates had been kept open to allow guests to drive in without delay, but have obviously been activated now to prevent his escape. Bond watches the opening to the road get narrower and narrower, as the immense wrought-iron gates slowly fold inwards like the wings of a giant bat. They will not, Bond suspects, be kind to the Audi’s doors. 

No matter. He puts the pedal to the floor, mentally applies a tin of lube, and bids a five-thousand-pound paint job goodbye. 

“The good news,” he explains to Moneypenny when he reports in from the M-1, “is that I don’t think they made me. They just think I’m …” 

“…an ill-mannered cad who can’t keep his zipper up?” Eve replies tersely and far too quickly. “Goody. That disguise will be sure to get you invited again. Next time think with your _other_ head, Bond.” 

There’s a brief pause during which Bond tries to think of a smart comeback, but fails spectacularly. Luckily, Eve deprives him of the need. 

“In case you haven’t been watching the news while you’ve been riding to hounds, or whatever it is you _have_ been riding, there have been some nasty developments in America. M wants you to come in.” 

She seems to take an unholy glee in delivering the next blow.

“First thing tomorrow, seven a.m. Don’t be late, James.”

 

…..

  

_Moneypenny_

 

Eve hangs up the phone with a little more vigour than required. 

_Men._

She casts an eye towards the telly that her predecessor had installed in the open area. It seems like a distraction, but sometimes the best and freshest Intel can be had from open news sources. Three days on and BBC World continues to show the footage of those ginormous flying aircraft carriers that S.H.I.E.L.D. had somehow kept hidden (including from parts of itself) in an over-sized basement, smack in the middle of DC. 

There the first one goes again, diving into the Potomac like a flaming Titanic on permanent loop. Ironically, none of the outraged talking heads ever mentions how many people went down with it, or how many of them were on the ship willingly. 

Eve reflects on the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents she has been doing business with over the last several years; the thought that any of them might have been involved in a plot to kill millions - just because they were unconventional thinkers – seems impossible. Still, the laws of probability suggest that at least some of MI-6’s usual contacts must have been in on the plot. 

Including at the very top. She doesn’t recall how many calls she’s set up between M and Pierce, plus that meeting in Washington last month … 

“A colossal failure of intelligence,” M had declared the whole thing, before going on a _real_ rant. “Are we that underfunded and understaffed that we have stopped looking at what our supposed allies are doing? When it has been abundantly clear - at least since Nick Fury ripped open the universe with that crystal toy of his - that they are not telling us half of what they are up to?” 

She had taken only the briefest of breaths before delivering her rhetorical deathblow. 

“I met Alexander Pierce how many times? Why was I not aware that he was part of Hydra? How do you suppose I explain that to the Committee?” 

“To be fair,” Eve had interjected, “much of S.H.I.E.L.D. itself had no idea that they had been infiltrated either. Nick Fury died for his mistake, and trying to make things right.” 

“That is hardly the point, Moneypenny.” M’s huffed response had brooked no contradiction. “He championed the concept of building a mechanical fail-safe threat-elimination system, and could not be bothered to tell us about it. I suppose the Canadians and Australians had no idea either. Why do we even _have_ intelligence sharing agreements, I ask?” 

Eve had wisely refrained from providing an off-the-top-of-her-head list of all the ops MI-6 had been engaged in during the last year, without briefing (let alone giving advance warning to) the CIA, S.H.I.E.L.D., or any other of its partner agencies. The thing is, though, it’s hard to disagree with the boss on this one. Watching the whole thing unfold in real time, on public TV and now in endless re-runs, is almost as bad as seeing aliens invade New York or trashing Greenwich without a heads-up. 

The picture changes to a talking head with an image of the Washington Capitol in the top right corner, followed by a scene from inside a conference room. At the centre is a redheaded woman, her face grimly determined as she brushes aside questions. 

The face is one with which Eve is only too familiar: Natasha Romanoff. 

“ _Yes, the world is a vulnerable place and yes, we helped make it that way. But we’re also the ones best qualified to defend it. So if you want to arrest me, arrest me. You’ll know where to find me.”_

Her words are eerily reminiscent of M’s own, once spoken to the Intelligence and Security Committee just before Eve had become her assistant: “ _So, before you declare us irrelevant, ask yourselves, how safe do you feel?_ ” 

Eve moves closer to the screen, as if that might provide a better idea on which side of the S.H.I.E.L.D./Hydra divide the former freelance assassin might have ended up. Romanoff might have been anointed an ‘Avenger’ and called one of the Heroes Of New York – not to mention having earned a reluctant nod of approval from M herself, for that unpleasant business in Jordan – but Eve cannot bring herself to trust the woman.

The phone on her desk rings, disrupting any further thoughts. The call display shows a number from outside the UK. Country code 48 – Poland - but with a prefix that marks it as a government line. 

Eve punches ‘accept’. 

“Miss Moneypenny?” The voice at the other end is unfamiliar. “Station chief Warsaw. I have a gentleman in my office who claims to know you. Says his name is Barton.” 

“Oh?” she manages, for want of anything more articulate to say. First a Romanoff sighting on TV, and now Barton on the phone. Coincidence worthy of a Charles Dickens novel? Eve thinks not. 

“Put him on, thank you.” 

She draws her competency around her shoulders like a cloak made of chain mail, and into her voice injects a professional cheer she does not feel. 

“Mr. Barton. How are you doing? Fully recovered?” 

Last time she’d heard the name he’d been on a plane to the Landstuhl military hospital in Germany. His hearing must have recovered if he’s able to use the phone. 

His hearing, maybe; his manners, as it turns out, not so much. Barton gets straight to the point. 

“Thanks for taking my call, Ms Moneypenny. Things are pretty fucked up here. Any chance you guys can get me out of Poland? Old times sake, calling in a solid and all that?” 

Eve awards him a silent bonus point for the ‘Ms’, and considers the other factors for a split second.

 _Clinton Francis Barton._ Ex-carnie, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., Avenger. Almost died working with James Bond to uncover a Hydra operation on the Isle of Skye that had almost unleashed untold disaster on Scotland. Seriously injured while stopping Hydra from opening a new front in the Middle East. 

If Barton _is_ Hydra, she concludes, it’s a deep cover. And if he’s not, his call suggests he is in need of protection. Either way, he’ll be a goldmine of information for M.

“Put me on speaker phone,” she says. 

It only takes a couple of minutes for her to direct the Warsaw station chief to generate a temporary British travel document for Barton - let’s hope he doesn’t open his mouth too wide when he gets into Heathrow - and to put him on the next BA flight. And yes, the Director’s Office will transfer the necessary funds to reimburse the embassy, and she’ll have Barton picked up at the airport by another agent. Nothing else needs to concern the Chief, including why an obvious _American_ deserves this treatment, please and thank you. Need to know only, and he does not need to know _that_. 

Eve replaces the phone on its cradle and punches one of the speed dial buttons.

“Bond? I have a small job for you, on your way into town. One that might just help to distract M from your most recent failings.” 

Ten minutes since she’d seen Natasha Romanoff’s face on television and already the sands are shifting again. Never a dull moment in the world of spycraft – sure beats being an accountant for a living. 

Eve allows herself a little smile.

 

 

 


	3. Three

_Barton_

Clint steps off the plane, patting the pocket with the fake British passport. Well, not fake, exactly – it’s the real thing, made up by Her Majesty’s loyal servants at the British Embassy. Authentic but for the small detail that he isn’t a Brit. (He can still hear the consular officer arguing with the station chief about that, only to be shut up with an invitation to address his concerns to the Director of MI-6, or her fearsome assistant.) 

Without having to wait for luggage, he’s in the arrivals hall within a few minutes, looking around for a sign by which to recognize his welcoming contact. As it turns out, guessing isn’t necessary. 

“That’s some high-priced help your boss is sending to fetch me,” he informs Bond, who raises an eyebrow in return greeting. “What’d you do, piss her off again?” 

Bond snorts. (That’s not a ‘no’.) 

“She wants me to make sure you don’t cause Big Ben to fall into a time warp, or something. They’re still fixing up Greenwich.”

They fall into step easily, walking side by side to the exit where a slightly scratched and dented Audi has attracted the attention of the parking Nazis. Bond flashes a badge, smiles sweetly at their disappointment, and motions Clint to get in with a slight lifting of the chin. The door is a bit out of whack, but closes on the third try. 

“Hurt?” he asks when Clint fidgets a bit longer than necessary with the seat belt. 

The question is more tactical assessment than polite concern, something Clint appreciates. 

“No more than that car of yours. Shit happens.” He shrugs. “Turns out most of the team on my last op was playing for another side.” 

“Sorry to hear that,” Bond replies, with enough feeling that Clint knows he is speaking about those members of his team who weren’t part of the ‘most’; it’s obvious, given that Clint is here alone, what happened to them. 

“Yeah. Me too.” 

 _Gomez and Gupta_. There’s red in somebody’s ledger, a debt Clint Barton will call in some day against someone. Paying it forward. 

They drive into the city in silence. 

M is as formidable as Clint remembers her: Maria Hill with silver hair and a few more pounds; voice and accent like Peggy Carter, but with a few more swear words thrown in. She gets straight to the point.

“So tell me, Mr. Barton, what the fuck is going on?” she asks when Moneypenny ushers them into her office. “How could S.H.I.E.L.D. allow itself to be so colossally undermined?” 

Since Clint has been asking himself that very same question for the last couple of days, ever since he first heard the name “Hydra” from CNN, he has an answer ready. Sort of. 

“Guess we were so busy looking for threats from outer space we forgot to look in the mirror and under the couch.” 

Clint lowers himself into a leather seat without waiting for an invitation. M glares at him on principle, but nods at Bond to sit down before taking a seat herself; Moneypenny bustles out of the room, presumably to fetch tea and cookies. ( _Biscuits_ , they’re called here, right? Must remember. Like S.H.I.E.L.D. and MI-6, the US and Britain are divided by a common language.) 

“And before you ask,” he continues, “No, I didn’t have a clue we had Hydra inside, or even just run-of-the-mill traitors. Assholes and morons, yes; including at the very top. Seems to be a common phenomenon in Government though, so nobody ever really thought about it.” 

Be interesting, actually, to see whether there’s a correlation between those things – treason and jerkdom - at least statistically. Clint finds himself mentally starting a list of people to investigate only to find that M is glaring at him for some reason, like he just offended her or something. 

 _Okay - focus, Barton._ MI-6 helped him out of Poland, so now it’s time to sing for his supper. That’s how these things work in the business of spies (within limits, of course).

M clears her throat.

“Project Insight, Mr. Barton? What do you know?”

She does seem to have a checklist of inconvenient things to ask about. So for that matter does Clint, but he’s pretty sure that the answers he’s looking for aren’t here.“Insight? Stupid idea. Told Fury as much when I learned about it. He never told me exactly how that was supposed to go down though. I got dropped to Level Seven after New York.”

He shrugs off another glare, and gets back on point. Why is it so hard to focus? Because names keep scrolling past on some inner screen inside his head, demanding to be put into columns of ‘definitely Hydra’, ‘not in a million,’ or ‘who the fuck knows’? He forces himself to get back on point. 

“Seriously. How can anyone predict who’s gonna be a problem down the road? Me, I’d have been vaporized by the fucking thing at age twelve. People like Stark or Banner would be on that list too, regardless of how useful they could be. Told Fury that. He didn’t like it.”

M gives him a measuring look.

“My interest is not in the details of how Insight was supposed to play out, Mr. Barton. Your friend Captain Rogers made both the idea itself and its failure rather obvious. I am far more interested in what you know about the background – about the people who conceived and authorized it, and how they succeeded in keeping it hidden in what amounts to plain sight.” 

Clint is a big picture guy himself – the only details that don’t bore him to death are the ones for the calculations he needs to make a successful shot – and this one’s been gnawing at him ever since he saw the footage of those carriers on CNN. He’d only caught a glimpse of the things once, when they were still being built. Fury had asked Clint to spot the weak points, presumably to avoid someone else taking the suckers down with a well-placed arrow (something the designers of those Death Stars never figured out, so go Nicholas J!). If he hadn’t, Clint might never have known about their existence.

Killing people before they do something really obnoxious has been Clint’s specialty for some time now, but in each and every instance his targets had _already_ proven themselves unfit for membership in the human race. So that’s what people who whispered about Insight in the S.H.I.E.L.D. cafeteria had assumed this was about. Eliminating confirmed threats _. Not_ pre-empting theoretical ones.

“Pierce,” he says, in response to M’s question. “Kit that costs more than ten million doesn’t go anywhere without his sign-off. Fury has authority up to that, Hill to five mill.” 

“You seem to know a lot about financial authorities, Mr. Barton.” 

Clint shrugs.

“Life in a bureaucracy, ma’am.” 

Hell, even his explosive arrows had to be approved by Hill before R&D was authorized to spend the money on making them happen. _Project initiation Authority_  it was called. But this was way bigger, bigger even than a fleet of Quinjets, so … 

“The Council must have been in on it; they sign the really, _really_ big checks. Same with Congress Appropriations, who’re responsible for the US’ contributions. Although they may not have been aware of exactly what Pierce was planning. Rich and powerful doesn’t mean smart, necessarily.”

Something occurs to him then.

“Why don’t you ask the Brit on the Council? What’s-her-name … Harley? Might be interesting to see what she thought they were buying and what for.“

“ _Hawley_. Lady Hawley.”

Moneypenny is back, tray in hand, not having missed a thing. That woman may be the designated tea fetcher, but she’s about as much of a _secretary_ as Pepper Potts ever was. Clint likes her.

M takes a cup from the tray - black, one sugar. Out comes the pinky, followed by a delicate sip and the delayed response.

“I would love to do that, Mr. Barton. But unfortunately the entire Council was killed when the Triskelion came down, including Councilwoman Hawley. We may never learn what they knew of this sordid affair, and when. Your Mr. Pierce saw to that quite effectively.”

Clint considers disputing the ‘ _your’_ – he’d always hated that supercilious prick - but what’s the point? Coffee not being on offer he takes a cup of tea instead; caffeine is caffeine and he’s desperate for a shot. 

He watches how Bond takes his. (Black, no pinky.) Good enough; no pinky it is. 

“You looked at her files though, I assume?” he asks. “Done some digging?” 

M’s lips pinch together but she doesn’t say anything. Silence is all the answer Clint needs and for the first time in three days he feels like he's scored some sort of victory. 

“Take it that’s a no, then.” 

M rallies to her people’s (her own?) defence. 

“We looked into Lady Hawley’s affiliations when the existence of the Council, and her membership in it, were first brought to my attention. Unfortunately, the only surprising thing we found pertained to her family’s real estate holdings. It appears that Pamela Hawley, through a number of consortia and shell companies, owns much of Kensington.” 

Her eyes narrow a little. 

“But before we could dig any deeper the Security and Intelligence Committee ordered us to direct our resources elsewhere. As it was, I did not complain. The research provided little of value and there were greater priorities than indulging my own curiosity.”

Still, Clint is not impressed.

“Figures, them stopping you, doesn’t it? Suits protecting other suits. Even if the suit’s on a woman.”

“The most exotic thing we found, before we were asked to stand down, was that her family also apparently holds real estate abroad, including a swathe of mid-town Manhattan, and a palazzo in Venice,” Moneypenny supplies, ignoring the jibe. “Hardly relevant to anything.” 

Bond looks up at that, an unreadable expression on his face, and when he opens his mouth his first contribution to the conversation hits Clint like a five-ton truck.

“Maybe we should be talking to Agent Romanoff, M. _She_ was actually there in Washington, and might know something about what went on behind the scenes. Barton wasn’t.” 

Clint jolts upright. 

“You know where Natasha is?”

The words come out in a snarl. _She’s alive._  

“She’s in Washington,” Bond shrugs, like that ought to have been obvious all along. Maybe it should have been? Natasha has survived catastrophic shit storms many times before. “Pissing people off, as always.” 

Clint’s hands clench involuntarily; he forces himself to relax.

“You could have said something sooner, Bond.”

“Didn’t know you didn’t know. She’s been on the BBC, prime time.”

Moneypenny is a touch more sympathetic. Her voice sounds softer, somehow, when she explains to Clint that his partner had been testifying at a Congressional hearing – at almost exactly the same time as he’d been dining on dry salt pretzels and soda water on Lot Airways. With no access to TV. 

“She said, ‘You’ll know where to find me,’ at the end of her appearance,” Eve adds, with a sideways look at M.

M re-seizes the reins of the conversation. 

“I assume you know where that might be, Mr. Barton?” 

He tilts his head and thinks for a moment. 

“Not _where_ so much as _how_.” 

No point denying it, since they’d just follow him anyway, if he tried to make a dash for it. (And where else would he go?) 

“Good. Because I may have a job for you and Miss Romanoff, since you are now unemployed, and seem to have an unusual knack for keeping Mr. Bond here in line when things get complicated.”

Bond ignores the gratuitous dig. 

“And the Security and Intelligence Committee?” he asks blandly. “They might not be happy if you start that investigation again.” 

“Fuck the Committee,” M snaps. “I want answers.”

 

…..

 

_Romanoff_

 

The text comes in from a source normally limited to spambots or phone solicitors - has anyone ever received a call from a 1-888 number that _didn't_  come from Mumbai? - but its message is as obvious as it is unoriginal.

 “Congratulations!” it says. “You have won two tickets to London! Come shop on Bond Street for free!”

 _Clint_. Alive, and apparently lying low in good company. 

Natasha takes a deep breath, and sends an inchoate ‘thank you’ into space. She briefly contemplates telling Maria where she is headed, but the former Deputy Director has made it clear that she has thrown her lot in with Stark Industries, and the last thing Natasha needs is to have Ironman sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. 

Cap is still in the hospital, but he’s a big boy and can look after himself plus he has Wilson to keep him company. She sends Sam a text: ‘ _Tell Steve I’ve gone to see a friend._ ’ 

Then, on second thought, and still feeling a bit raw about a few things, she adds, ‘ _Someone I trust and who’s trusted me for a long time.’_  

There. Steve will figure it out. 

Natasha grabs her go bag and heads for JFK, hoping that the next flight to Heathrow won’t be a United one.

 

…..

 

_Bond_

 

Bond has met the Quartermaster in many locations – in his lair at Bletchley, in the National Gallery, in a dingy underground station when MI-6 had to temporarily relocate due to unscheduled renovations.

But Q making a house call? That’s a first and Bond suspects it has very little to do with him. He heaves an inaudible sigh as he looks from the bespectacled, mop-haired genius to the man’s long-term object of unrequited adoration.

“I’ve been working on these ever since I heard what happened to you in Jordan,” Q confides to Barton, leaning in just a little and sounding just a wee bit breathless. He opens his beaten-up satchel and takes out a small cloth pouch, wrapped around itself a couple of times. 

“Hearing aids?” Barton frowns. “I have a set that Stark built for me. They’re pretty good, actually. Don’t fall out, either.” 

Q pulls his face into something like a moue of disapproval. 

“Not hearing aids,” he says, before adding somewhat coyly, “Well, not _only._ These come with a passive electro-magnetic charge, with a small time delay. I wouldn’t recommend anyone take them from you. I’m surprised your Mr. Stark hasn’t thought of that, given his background.” 

Bond fully expects Barton to come back with an incredulous ‘ _And you expect me to stick those suckers in my ears?’_ But instead he just says, “What happens if I take one of them out myself, or they come out on their own? Sandman come early and for good?” 

Q shrugs himself a little deeper into his sweater vest and tut-tuts with pinched lips at Barton’s lack of faith.

“The special feature is only activated by biometric imprints that aren’t yours, Mr. Barton. A third party has to touch them.” 

And, hopefully, not put them straight back into Barton’s ears as a favour. 

“Oh, and someone has to activate the extra feature with a voice command. Say _boom._ ” Q chuckles at his own joke.

“Well, _that_ sounds like fun. I hope I can remember that, and not use it in the wrong conversation. Could be awkward.” 

The throaty voice causes all three men to snap their heads around. Natasha Romanoff, in the flesh, her hair longer than Bond remembers and oddly straight. But still flaming red. 

“How did you get into my house?” Bond blurts out, although he doesn’t really expect an answer. Maybe the question should really have been, _How the hell did you know where I live_? but Moneypenny knows and all it takes is a phone call. 

Barton says nothing, only stares at his partner as if she's materialized from the dead; maybe, as far as he is concerned, she has. A small smile plays around his lips and finds an answer in her eyes and for a few seconds Bond and Q may as well be on another planet, for all the attention the two former S.H.I.E.L.D. agents are paying anyone else in the room. 

The moment passes. Romanoff tilts her head a little, taking Barton’s measure, and points at his arm. 

“Here I thought you'd managed to avoid all the excitement of the last few days. Guess I was wrong. We seem to have matching bullet holes.” 

The woman misses nothing, it appears. Barton’s eyes narrow as he looks at Romanoff with something approaching x-ray vision.

“My so-called teammates sprung a surprise on me. Lost the two that weren’t playing along.” His voice turns even more gravelly. “Sorry I wasn’t there with you and Cap, to help out. How’d you get hurt?”

Romanoff shrugs. 

“Long story. Besides, it’s almost healed.” Her lips curl in a little smile as she remembers something. “We had some unexpected assistance. Someone I’d like you to meet some day.” 

Bond has had enough of the reunion banter. 

“If you two are done touching feelers, can we get on with things here? Time and tide wait for no man.” 

“Tide?” Barton looks puzzled, while the Quartermaster shoots Bond an exasperated look; apparently he doesn't appreciate public school quotes. 

“Quite,” Q says sourly and reaches for his Mary Poppins bag again. 

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything special for Miss Romanoff, since I had no idea she would be joining us. But for you, Mr. Bond, I have a variation of the Maxwell Smart loafer, with a touch of Leapy Lee and the Wizard of Oz. A genuine connoisseur’s item.” 

“A what?” Bond can’t hide his incredulity.

“Leapy who?” Barton demands. 

“You tap your heels,” Q says smugly, “and … you know. ‘ _Little arrows in your clothing, little arrows in your hair …'"_

Facing blank stares from both of them, Q stops singing (if that’s what it was) and sighs heavily.

“And here I thought that given his knowledge of Sixties’ television, Mr. Barton at the very least would be familiar with period music. ‘Little Arrows’ was _very_ popular in the 1960s.” 

Barton shudders. 

“Heartland and Jersey rock, man. Brit Pop gives me the cooties. Also, that shoe of Smart’s didn’t actually shoot things. It was just a phone. People always get that wrong.” 

Q does his best to hide his disdain. 

“The active agent on the arrows is based on curare,” he huffs in the direction of Bond, who should probably not be as pleased as he is to find that Q is actually talking to _him_ now. Maybe the sheen is off the carnie romance, based on irreconcilable differences in musical tastes? Almost worth being handed _arrows_ , of all things. 

“Curare?” he asks. “Isn’t that a bit … old-fashioned?” 

“I said _based on._ This is a nerve agent, much more powerful and faster acting. Take off your shoes, 007.”

Bond bids a mental farewell to his Church’s, and removes them resentfully. At least Q has thought to retrieve his correct shoe size from the files; the fit of the new ones is almost excellent, just missing the custom insoles for perfect comfort. Not that he would ever admit as much.

“How many rounds?” 

Q preens.

“Two per shoe. Ninety-degree radius, angled up to three feet so they get over most people’s boots but still stay out of primary visual range. The foot on the ground is the one that fires, so you can give some direction; just make sure that no one you like is standing beside you. They are rather indiscriminate.” 

Romanoff, meanwhile, lets her eyes wander around the studio apartment, taking in the black faux-leather couch, the paintings leaning against the wall, the generic floor lamp and coffee table. Not to mention the absence of any visible organic material, a bottle of vermouth and a jar of olives on the pristine kitchen counter being the notable exceptions. 

“Nice place, James,” she purrs. “It’s so … _you._ ” 

Q looks at her with approval. 

“On second thought, Miss Romanoff, maybe I _do_ have something you could use. I do happen to have some run-of-the-mill gadgets on me. Nothing special, but I assume S.H.I.E.L.D. is no longer available to supply you with the essentials.” 

Natasha raises her eyebrow questioningly as Q gets busy with his bag. 

“Standard cellphone scrambler. Like they use in Afghanistan, to stop people setting off IEDs with their mobiles. I was hoping to turn it into a … oh never mind. You can have it, if you like. They come in handy.” 

He plunks the small gadget down on a coffee table and adds a handful of little cylinders. 

“High-powered LED lights, controlled centrally, by this one. In case you find yourself in the dark about something again.“ He chuckles to himself, tugging on his sweater vest for effect. “Or feel the need to liven up Mr. Bond’s living space. They even change colour. I hear that’s all the rage in America.” 

Romanoff shrugs, scoops up the loot and sticks it into the pocket of her leather jacket without comment. Bond watches her dispassionately. 

“Maybe we should discuss next steps? Unless you prefer debating the finer points of interior decoration of course.” 

“And what exactly is ‘our job’?” Romanoff asks, not unreasonably, even if the air quotes grate a little.

M had been unusually vague in her tasking – a function of the extent to which MI-6 had been on the sidelines of the decade’s single biggest failure of intelligence. ‘ _I want answers’_ is not exactly helpful, when you don’t know where to start with the questions. There's not even an analytical sit rep on which to base a plan of attack. 

Bond hesitates just a second too long, leaving Barton to make an attempt. 

“Your boss seemed interested in talking to that Councilor, Hawley. You meet her in DC, Nat?” 

Romanoff nods her head in the affirmative, but her words are bitter. 

“I did. It’s too late to talk to her though, I’m afraid. After I … borrowed her suit so that I could get close to Pierce, I left her in the basement of the Triskelion. I told her to stay put with the door locked, to stay safe. She wasn’t happy about any of it, but we had no idea whom to trust.” 

For a professional assassin, she looks surprisingly bothered. _Romanoff going soft?_  

“And?” 

Bond knows the answer already, if only by the shadow that crosses Romanoff’s face.

“The building went down like the Twin Towers, with a burning helicarrier embedded halfway up. I never saw her again. Very few survivors were pulled out; most bodies burned beyond recognition.” 

There seems to be another sort of fire flickering behind her eyes when she concludes, softly, “The rest of the Council didn’t make it out either, to my knowledge. A couple of them were basically decent people. _Collateral damage,_ now.” 

“Shit.” Barton purses his lips for a second – probably as much thought as he has ever given S.H.I.E.L.D.’s political masters - and moves on. “Other bright ideas?” 

Romanoff is ready. 

“I say we follow the money. Before I came here I mentioned to Hill that something the size of Project Insight doesn’t come for free. Someone authorized and wrote the cheques, and there’s a good chance they knew exactly what they were buying, and what for.” 

That sounds reasonable, as far as Bond is concerned, and in line with M’s vague instructions. But there’s a catch. 

“Not exactly a job for field agents, is it? What we need is someone who can track appropriations, financial transactions and crunch numbers. Not my strong suit and I dare say, it’s not Barton’s either.” 

Bond’s glance cuts over to Q, who throws up both hands.

“Don’t look at me. I’m a technical genius, not a forensic accountant.” 

Barton furrows his brow. 

“What we _really_ need is someone with the inside scoop on who is who in the military industrial complex and has access to a really good computer that can hack into bank accounts and spot patterns.” He grins speculatively at Romanoff. “We don’t know _anyone_ like that, do we?” 

The corner of her mouth curves slightly upward. 

“Sometimes you’re smarter than you look, Barton.” She turns to Bond and Q. “He’s right. Let’s ask Tony Stark to sic his A.I. on the money trails for _Insight_. Hill now works for Stark Industries; for all I know she’s already started something like that.” 

Barton snorts – to do with the idea of Hill working for Stark, maybe? - before asking the obvious question.

“While we do what? Twiddle our thumbs and hope Hydra doesn’t find us?” 

Something occurs to Bond then, something so obvious he feels like kicking himself for not having seen it sooner. Then again he’s a field agent, not an analyst; going after a target is an entirely different skill set from figuring out who that target should be in the first place. But this idea feels right. 

“ _The Committee._ M said the Security and Intelligence Committee stopped MI-6 from investigating Hawley’s activities for the Council.” 

The two ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. agents exchange a look while Q looks suddenly very alert; so far, so good. 

“Who’s on the Committee?” Romanoff wants to know. 

Bond counts them down on his fingers. 

“Gareth Mallory’s the Chair. Ex-military, then career civil service. A bit of an arse, but has integrity. Plus, he doesn’t participate in the decision-making. The five voting members include three MPs, one from each major party: Claire Dowar, Rajesh Singh, and Angus MacLeod.” 

He considers for a moment, tries to dredge up a name, and fails. 

“Two from the Lords: A former National Security Adviser, name escapes me, was made a Lord under Major. Ancient. The other is Viscount Aylesbury, hereditary peer.” 

“Viscount? You mean, like Toad of Toad Hall?” Barton’s ears prick up. “I vote we start with him.” 

“ _I_ vote we proceed on the basis of evidence, Clint,” Romanoff rolls her eyes. She turns back to Bond. “Let’s call Moneypenny and ask her who voted to suppress the investigation. That should narrow it down – unless they’re all crooked.” 

Bond is already on the phone. 

The call to Moneypenny nets three names: The Committee members who blocked the Hawley investigation were Dowar, Singh, and Aylesbury. The latter earns a smug “Ha!” from Barton, which both Bond and Romanoff take great pains to ignore. 

Not so Q. 

“The Dark Knight rises,” he says and bumps fists with Barton. “Down with the ruling class.” 

Romanoff ignores them; she’s all business. 

“I assume Moneypenny knows where they live?” 

“Public record,” Bond says. “Provided they want to file expense claims for their homes. But I assume they carry on any seriously nasty business under cover of parliamentary privilege, rather than at home; makes them unsearchable without the Service running through major hoops.” 

“Meaning what?” Barton wants to know. 

“Meaning we should start by looking in their offices.” Bond frowns. “Of course, Westminster has been pretty secure since those IRA bombings in the Seventies.” 

“Some MPs are in Portcullis House,” Q interjects brightly, before adding somewhat less helpfully, “Not that that’s any less secure.” 

“Are you saying Westminster is impossible to break into, Q?” Romanoff sounds like someone ready for a challenge. “You do realize we specialize in that sort of thing? Can’t be any worse than Fort Meade.” 

Barton looks at her with interest; clearly a story he hasn’t heard yet. But now is not the time, especially since Q appears to have something up his sleeve. 

“I didn’t say _impossible_ , nor did I say _break in_. I said those buildings are _secure_ ,” he says. “I believe I also mentioned that I’m a technical genius. I do assume, Double-Oh-Seven, that you have a laptop and a printer here?”

  

 

 

 

 


	4. Four

_Moneypenny_

 

Eve hangs up the phone, and stares out the window for a moment, lost in thought. 

There’s a sudden sharp pain. _Bugger_. 

Chewing her cuticles again, and didn’t even notice. Bad habit for sure, but Eve has never quite shaken the conviction that biting off bits of your own skin is a catalyst for creative thinking, and so she’s never bothered to try and quit. She stares at her bleeding left middle finger, curses again, and proceeds to nibble off the bit of skin that sticks out, lest it get caught on something. 

Dowar, Singh and Aylesbury. What do they have in common? One vote on one committee is hardly a pattern now, is it? 

Good thing M has headed off to Brussels for the rest of the day and tomorrow. With no one around to shower her with sudden demands, Eve feels perfectly free to indulge her secret passion for data mining and analysis. It had been, after all, the reason she’d signed up for MI-6 in the first place - before HR had insisted on making her a field agent (probably to meet some kind of visible minority quota, because she sure hadn’t volunteered). 

Independent research! Fun times. 

Eve contemplates getting a plaster for her finger, but those tend to interfere with using the keyboard. Plus, it will probably heal better with exposure to air. She rolls her shoulders and sits down at the computer. 

 _Dowar, Singh and Aylesbury._  

Two in the Commons, one in the Lords. It doesn’t take more than fifteen minutes to establish patterns, ranging from votes on legislation or in committee, to public statements on issues of the day. 

Dowar has, throughout her political life, managed to hustle her way into security committees of any stripe, despite lacking any formal background on the issues. Maybe because she’s a woman, and her presence allows the boys to pretend they’ve given a nod to gender equality?

 _Oh, Eve, dear. Having a cynical sort of a day, are we?_  

Well, now Dowar has that background, by virtue of sitting on those committees. Describing her voting record on security issues as _hawkish_ is putting it mildly – she’s more like a bloodthirsty pterodactyl; her ability to skirt the European Convention on Human Rights in the process is almost acrobatic. Pictures of her in cozy conversation with Dick Cheney, a number of deeply conservative members of the US Congress, the late Ian Paisley and Vladimir Putin are icing on the cake.

Singh’s expense claims, those related to public events around the country and abroad, including to his family’s native India, show a love of trade fairs showcasing military equipment, parts and components. And this despite the fact that no major industry players are located in his own constituency. He also has friends in the US Congress, as well as in the Russian Duma. 

 _Rajesh, my man. Who or what are you in bed with?_  

Aylesbury’s substantial family fortune is in a blind trust, supposedly to keep his portfolio from influencing his voting patterns, all nice and tidily signed off by the Parliamentary Commissioner for Standards. A quick correlation with the LSE and other stock exchanges, though, shows share acquisitions (or sales) by the brokers holding that trust, coinciding with the British government’s announcements of major military procurement. All made far enough ahead of relevant acquisitions so as not to trigger insider trading investigations, or investigation by parliamentary watchdogs. 

Funny how these things work. And Eve thought politicians’ _pensions_ were too generous. 

Then there is, of course, the matter of how Viscount Aylesbury came to be elected to the House of Lords, now that the number of hereditary peers in that hoary institution is restricted to ninety people (as opposed to any toff who’s not dead or in jail). One of his most vocal supporters appears to have been none other than his fellow conservative member, one Lady Pamela Hawley. 

My fair Lady indeed. _By George, she’s got it…_  

Eve lets out a slow breath, fixes herself a coffee, and wonders briefly what Bond & Company may be up to, now that it’s dark outside. (Probably best if she doesn’t know, plausible deniability for the boss, and all that.) Eve sure isn’t sorry that she’s no longer in the field, but the thought of what Bond and the two Americans might do with the raw, dry information she has already given them does make her spine tingle a wee bit. 

She cracks her knuckles. 

There are police sirens coming from across the river now, headed up Millbank, towards Westminster - the usual night music of a city of millions. Eve resolutely ignores the distraction; she’s got work to do. Here’s to Eve Moneypenny, putting the _sexy_ back into expense accounts. 

All three of her targets have filed numerous claims for trips to Washington in the course of their Committee work; all seemingly above board, labeled as _liaison visits_. Same with trips to Beijing, Brussels, Mumbai, Moscow, Paris. No extravagant expenses - business class flights only as per entitlements, standard hotels, _per diems_ in accordance with guidelines. Any personal days scrupulously declared, and not charged to the taxpayers. 

And there it is _._

Almost every time Singh, Dowar or Aylesbury went abroad on Government business, there is, in fact, a ‘personal day’ tacked on to the claim. Sometimes two. Fun private times with the wife, or side business? 

And what about completely private trips, for which the filing of a public claim isn’t necessary? 

Eve’s fingers are flying on the keyboard now. Airline manifests, searches by passenger name, cross-referenced to her three targets in case they all went to the same places. (Hello, special clearance!) It doesn’t take long for a lengthy list to come up for each of the three, which Eve prints out. For some things, paper is still the best, and visually spotting correlations is one of them. 

Several of their destinations are notable, once you take out traditional beach holiday spots you’d go to with your family. New York visits spiked after the 2012 Chitauri incident. 

Berlin is almost cliché, if you’re looking for a Hydra link, but hey. But Gdansk. Thirteen visits? 

Colorado. _Colorado?_ Skiing, maybe? But Dowar and Aylesbury went there at the same time, twice, with different routings and outside of the season. _Wait_. Wasn’t there a SHIELD installation in the mountains, near NORAD headquarters? Eve makes a note. 

 _Odessa, Ukraine._  

Lots of old-style Soviets still there, if Frederick Forsyth is to be believed. No wait – the ODESSA in his book was an acronym, to do with the Nazis. Not the Soviets, but ex-SS. Hydra…? Worth a look. Eve pops a quick e-mail into the system for the Kyiv station chief, inviting him to dig into possible connections between whatever is happening in the shady side of Odessa, and SHIELD’s recent collapse. 

Then there’s Sokovia. _Sokovia?_ Not the funnest of spots in Eastern Europe. All Eve knows about the place is that it’s a perennial battleground between powers great and small, with the occasional outbreak of organized religious fervor and a startling unemployment rate. All of which may, of course, make it of interest to people selling loyalties, causes, and guns. 

Eve’s shoulders are getting stiff, and her coffee cold. Her work is resulting in more follow-up work than actionable Intel, it seems, and if her search proves anything, it’s that these politicians must have a second source of income. The private jaunts alone run into the hundreds of thousands of quid… 

And ... Eureka. 

All three of her targets appear to share an affinity for that ancient Queen of the City State, Home of Marco Polo, who brought gunpowder to Europe, and a source of masks both cheerful and malevolent. Site of James Bond’s most painful defeat. 

 _La Serenissima._ The Pearl of the Adriatic: Venice _._  

Where Pamela Hawley’s family just happens to own a palazzo _._  

 

…..

 

_Barton_

 

Turns out Bond can offer a laptop, but no printer. 

“I hate paper,” he says, something Clint would really like to hold against him, but can’t, because it would just be hypocritical. 

It all works out though when they find a small shop on what Q calls ‘the High Street’, where you can get your printing and faxing done for a few ‘bob’, whatever that is. The Pakistani dude who runs it has the latest colour equipment, too, and by the time they’re done, the badges - for which Q had gotten the Westminster security system to cough up the printer commands, somehow - look pretty damn official.

 _Guest of peer, to be recognized and treated as such,_ is written on his and Natasha’s badges. Clint suppresses a snicker. Bond’s badge, in turn, marks him as the newly minted Lord Warburton of the High Wold, recent recipient of what Q called _letters patent_ that magically turn a normal guy into a ‘sir’ and put him into the House of Lords. (So much for the old ‘I hereby dub thee knight!’ thing with the sword. Sometimes, progress sucks.) 

Of course, the real Lord Warburton has a lot more chins, money and friends than Bond, but, hey. Beggars can’t be choosers, and he’s the best choice of the moment. Switching photos in the Westminster files took Q five seconds. 

“Warburton was just elevated to the peerage, and the security guards won’t expect to know his face yet,” Q had pointed out. “He hasn’t formally taken up his seat yet, but it’s perfectly acceptable for him to go in and check out his new office before he dons the ermine.”

 _What the what?_  

Well, whatever. Apparently, it’ll be okay for the Good Lord to bring his interior decorator and personal assistant with him, and that despite the late hour. Privilege runs deep with this one. 

Q had entered all the necessary notification into the security system, and assured them they would be expected. Normally, those are ominous words, but for some reason Clint finds himself trusting the little shit. Bond seems to, anyway. 

But this whole Lords thing? Something about that rubs Clint the wrong way, and as they’re headed to Westminster in the slightly scratched Audi, he tries to draw Bond into a debate. 

“So seriously, half the guys in your Senate inherits the job, and the other half gets it by sucking up to the Government?” 

“Pretty much,” Bond replies. “Although it’s not half and half.” 

He turns a corner, flattening his passengers to the side of the car, but careful to avoid a flock of Japanese tourists. 

“And it’s no more sleazy than getting paid by the NRA and spending the rest of your term paying back IOUs.” 

“What about politicians who actually _own_ things that a Government might want to use?” Natasha throws in. “I don’t think anyone ever totted up how much money Dick Cheney made off the Iraq war through Halliburton.” 

“You mean getting my ass shot at in Iraq was the result of politicians being in bed with special interests? I’m shocked,” Clint declares. “ _Shocked._ ” 

Bond just harrumphs, and turns into the Westminster parking garage. He flashes his badge to the attendant. 

“I’m terribly sorry, my good man,” he says in his poshest Oxbridge accent, the kind that never fails to make Clint feel like an uneducated carnie even as he wants to smash the speaker’s face in. “My parking pass appears to having been held hostage to bureaucratic incompetence. But I do believe you are expecting us.” 

There’s a bated-breath moment while the guy takes Bond’s badge and checks it against computer records. Q’s hack attack seems to have been successful, and after a token moment of staring deep into Bond’s eyes, the attendant achieves equilibrium between doing his job and not pissing off a peer of the realm. He lifts the gate and lets them drive in.   

The building itself is right out of Downton Abbey: wooden paneling, stone walls and carpets that change colour, depending on which corridor you go down. The only obvious reminder of the twenty-first century is the CCTV cameras at every corner.

The lights are dim, given the late hour – Britain is Going Green! – but there are still people wandering around in the halls. 

“So, we start with the Commoners?” he asks. Green carpet for the People; red for the Upper Crust. Who needs a map, when you have a functioning class system? 

“ _Commons_ ,” Bond corrects absently. “And yes. Claire Dowar. Member for Beckwith-upon-Tyne. Should be on this floor.” 

Of course, the fact that it’s after ten at night doesn’t mean Dowar’s office is empty when they get there. _Shit._  

Dowar herself is not around, but there’s a sharp-eyed young woman on a computer - an intern? does everyone have interns these days? - and some vaguely South Asian-looking yuppie in a dark blue suit. Clint has always been convinced that the width of a guy’s pinstripes is proportionate to how much of a dick he is; this guy’s are a full inch-and-a-half apart. A real prize.

The man’s thumbs are dancing over the small keypad of a BlackBerry; he looks up when the three agents enter the office. By silent agreement, Bond is taking point. 

He seems to have tired of the Lord Warburton shtick already, though. Holding up his MI-6 badge, he says in an almost pleasant tone, “This is an official investigation into Ms Dowar’s expense claims. I am authorized to access every document in this office. Please take your hands off your electronic devices.” 

The yuppie, of course, tries to peck out a few more keystrokes on his Berry but Clint is on him like a flash, clamping one hand around the guy’s wrist and taking the thing away with the other. A quick line at the screen shows an open e-mail to Rajesh Singh, which is interesting. Clint pockets the device. 

“You heard the man,” he says. “Now sit down and play nice. We have a warrant.”

Deprived of his cell phone, the yuppie tries to reach for the old-fashioned telephone on the desk. 

“I am calling security,” he says, trying to inject a tone of authority into his voice, “to verify your _bona fides_. I’d like to see that warrant; everyone can have a badge.” 

“We _are_ security,” Bond replies blandly. “I wouldn’t move if I were you. My colleague here would take that very unkindly. And you know how the press gets about MPs not cooperating with investigations into their expense accounts? Elections have been lost over that.”

The yuppie continues to argue – something about jurisdiction and parliamentary immunity, and Clint is sorely tempted to put him out of everyone’s misery. 

The intern, for her part, is sitting perfectly still, like she is supposed to. Seems searches like this aren’t entirely unknown around here; for all the gentility oozed out by the oak paneling, the place is probably just as full of crooks as the US House of Representatives. British politicians – and criminals - just _seem_ higher class than everyone else’s; it’s the accent, Clint is convinced. 

“May I have a look at Miss Dowar’s calendar?” 

“Here,” the intern says eagerly, even as the yuppie utters a protest. “I’ll show you.”

  
She motions Natasha to come behind the desk and look at her boss’ Outlook calendar, while Bond goes through to the MP’s private office and starts riffling through the drawers, looking for Lord knows what. People don’t usually leave smoking guns in their desks, do they?

This whole op seems a bit … small-minded. Is this really how British intelligence works at home, like a bunch of town cops looking for a post-it note that says _the butler did it, in the library, with a candlestick?_ What the fuck is that whole double-oh thing about, then – a trump card, in case you don’t manage to bore your targets to death? 

Clint dials his resting face up to _don’t fuck with me_ and scans the room, looking for potential threats. None materialize, and he deflates a little. After the excitement of the last couple of days, this is downright boring. 

Natasha, meanwhile, has followed Bond into the main office. She plugs a Stark Industries special-edition USB stick - the kind that copies entire hard drives in about a minute flat - into Dowar’s desktop. The yuppie, peeking around the corner, objects. Naturally. 

“You can’t do that!” he yelps. “Ms Dowar’s files are subject to Security Committee confidence!” 

There’s something in that ineffectual pinstriped outrage that is almost endearing. Clint has seen minions before (been one himself, in fact, although he’d rather forget about that particular shit show). This guy is B-grade at best, unless whining is now considered a career move. 

“No shit,” Clint says patiently. “That’s precisely why her expenses matter so much. How could we trust someone in matters of national security if she doesn’t file proper travel claims? We must honour the bureaucracy.” 

He removes his Heckler & Koch from the holster and starts running it idly through his fingers (without watching) which seems to shut the yuppie up – at least for the time being. The intern, on the other hand, seems oddly mesmerized by the display. 

A couple minutes later Bond comes back out into the open area, a small bound diary in hand. Natasha pulls out her USB stick at the same time.

“That’ll do for now,” Bond says to the yuppie with an ingratiating smile. “Thank you for your cooperation.” 

The last thing Clint sees as they leave the office is the yuppie, reaching for the phone. 

But no alarm goes off, suggesting the faith of British parliamentary bureaucracy in the integrity of the country’s security apparatus remains intact. 

 _Almost too easy, this._  

Aylesbury’s office, when they get there, marching down the red plush road, is empty and dark, with an outside light throwing deep shadows into the room. Natasha is still looking for a light switch when first one, then another of those shadows starts to move. 

 _Thanks, Pinstripes._  

What follows is a spot of distinctly un-British mayhem. Clint uses his left arm to block an attempt to brain him with the butt of a gun – mistake that, it still hurts like fuck - grabs his assailant’s arm and pivots with it, pulling the man forward. But instead of becoming unbalanced, the man just grunts and unleashes a vicious kick into Clint’s mid-section. 

 _Fuck, that guy is big._ And … _unfh._  

Clint switches tactics – no point in going for center mass, when center mass is a fucking boulder. He delivers a sharp kick to the man’s kneecap; there’s a satisfying crack, followed by a curse and a shifting in weight. _Good._ Another kick, and the guy is swaying a little, but still swinging – his fist connecting with Clint’s temple in a way that would probably have caused real damage if he’d been able to throw his entire weight into it. 

Out of the corner of his eyes, Clint sees Natasha take on a second man in her typically fluid fashion; the guy can’t lay a hand on her, no matter how hard he tries. A handstand and a flip, and his neck snaps under the pressure of the finest pair of thighs between Moscow and DC.

Some day, Clint considers briefly, he should really take up ballet. 

He grabs Boulder Man’s shirt and manages to pull him forward, just enough to force the guy to shift his weight onto the knee that no longer wants to bear it. He buckles and goes down with a curse, which Clint manages to shut up with a swiftly placed kick to the jaw. 

Bond, for his part, is being flung repeatedly into a desk by a guy who seems to be about the same size as Clint’s sparring partner. (Where do they breed these types? Some special goon ranch on the Isle of Man?) But just as Clint is about to lend a hand, he gets his hand on a paperweight – probably says something like _Greetings from Tokyo_ _–_ and uses it to drive the man’s nose into his skull. 

Even without any shots having been fired, the noise caused by the fighting is enough to cause someone to push an alarm button (although in this ancient joint, it’s probably a tasseled cord). A posh voice announces that there is “a developing situation on the second floor”, and would people please refrain from going there just now? The building, the speaker advises politely, is now in lock down; the situation is under control, but no one will be permitted to leave pending further instructions, with apologies to the Honourable Members for the inconvenience. 

“Guys, we better go,” Natasha says, barely out of breath. They may not have time to do a proper search here, but out of habit she grabs a sheaf of doodles from beside the phone and gives it a brief look. Her eyes widen a little; she stuffs one of the papers in her pocket and turns towards the door.

A bunch of security types come running down the corridor now, shouting something. They’re not cut from the goon cloth though – just regular security, complicating things. Clint hates having to deal with decent guys just doing their jobs, and suspects Bond feels the same way. (Natasha, he’s sometimes not sure – her consideration for the working stiffs tends to be more pragmatic than sentimental.)

Luckily, this being Britain, the cops don’t have their guns out, not even to defend the House of Commons; if this were the Capitol, Clint figures, the bazookas would have been out by now, and a hail of bullets shredding the wallpaper. 

“This way,” Bond hisses, having spotted a side corridor that seems to be cop-free. For now, anyway. Twenty yards and another turn later, and there are more shouts for them to stop. Clint is beginning to almost wish for gunfire; all this politeness is getting on his nerves. 

Luckily there’s an escape hatch.

“Guys, door!” 

Clint doesn’t wait for his partners’ approval; he opens the heavy carved door. It’s the only one in this corridor, so the room behind it must be big. Sure enough, the light is dim, but it looks pretty cavernous, like a theatre. And they seem to have come out in the peanut gallery, or what the Swordsman used to call _The Gods._

The dominant colour scheme is dark wood, splotches of brass, and the carpet is a dignified green. There’s a golden thing on the dais in the back, a bit like Loki’s glo-stick and the whole thing looks awfully familiar. 

 _Oh, shit._  

Not a theatre, then. At least, not exactly – depends how you feel about politics, and things like Question Period.

Natasha points at the bottom of the balcony. Both Clint and Bond understand immediately, and make a run for it. A quick swing over the bannister, hold for a second and drop … Good thing that green carpet is pretty thick, and cushions the fall. 

There are shouts now coming from above, and Bond, Natasha and Clint race down the open area in the center, past the empty rows of seats rising up on either side. 

“Seriously, Barton? Taking the fight into the heart of British democracy? That’s bold, even for you.” 

Natasha manages to sound amused even as she avoids an inconveniently placed table littered with documents, as well as a startled intern, the only living being in the House. 

“North side of the building,” Bond hisses as they emerge into an open area. There are shouts approaching from both sides now. “The river is our best bet.” 

 _Shitshitshit._ Clint is not overly fond of the Thames – who knows whether that Frostbeast thing had kittens before they killed it? - but there’s probably not much by the way of alternatives; the guy in the garage won’t be as accommodating any more, so they can pretty much kiss the car goodbye. 

A hundred yards and a couple of turns later – fuck, this place is a rabbit warren - a run-in with an unarmed security detail is followed by one with a couple of dudes that didn’t get the ‘no guns’ memo. No time to figure out whether this is regular security, or some more of Aylesbury’s friends. 

Tomorrow, for once, the green carpet of the House of Commons will be tinged in red. 

Finally, a window – tall and gothic, and Clint can see the black waters of the river splashing up against the building underneath when he opens it.   There are alarms howling now from every which way, and blue lights approaching across the Thames. 

“MI-6,” Bond shouts at the patrol boat that is speeding towards them. He holds his badge into the floodlight one of the SWAT types is shining at their window – pretty optimistic, thinking they’d be able to actually see the thing, but the mere gesture seems to convince them he’s on the level. Because, like, who’d want to pretend they’re the law, during a terrorism scare? 

“The Commons is under attack by terrorists,” Bond shouts. “I have the Prime Minister. Help me get him away!” 

Seriously? Clint tries to remember what the guy looks like – it _is_ a guy, right? That Iron Woman is no longer around? – and whether he can attempt a reasonable approximation. 

He pulls himself up a little, trying to look important, civilian, and scared. The boat pulls up underneath them; Natasha is the first to jump. 

Within seconds, there is no one else on the boat. Scruples, Clint considers – there’s a time and a place for them, and this probably isn’t it. Shots are now whipping into the water beside the boat, coming from the window they just jumped through. 

Bond lunges for the engine, flicks off the flashing lights, and they’re off into the darkness, dodging river traffic as they leave the Houses of Westminster behind in a sharp, white-tipped wake. 

“Well, we know now that at least one of our targets has access to a private goon squad that doesn’t work for Her Majesty,” Bond says as he cranks the helm. “Wonder whom they paid to get those guns into the House.” 

‘Guess Mr. Toad doesn’t like to keep his office open to public scrutiny,” Clint replies as St. Paul’s Cathedral heaves into view. “Almost like he was ready for something. Was what you guys got in the other place worth all that excitement, or do we have to go back for Number Three?”

Natasha has been staring at the papers from her pocket, trying to confirm in the uncertain light of other ships on the Thames, what she seems to have first seen in Singh’s office.

“You could say so,” she says softly, and hands the sheet to Clint. 

Claire Dowar, it appears, is a doodler – the kind of person who scribbles as she talks, especially when she’s on the phone. The paper Natasha picked up from her desk has several curious little drawings in the corner, small black blobs with lines extending from them like tentacles, all marching in a row. Something a child might produce: “ _Look Mommy, a spider!_ ” 

But far more important is the little notation, surrounded by circles and arrows. 

“Incoming,” it says; the spaces of the ‘a’ and the ‘e’ meticulously filled in by a pen needing to keep busy. “Rotterdam.” 

“Could mean anything,” Clint says. “So?” 

“Look at the paper itself,” Natasha says, with more urgency than he’s heard her speak since before the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D.

  
The print on the paper reads _Daily Order Paper -_ the daily calendar of the House of Commons that tells the politicians when to be where, and what to avoid like the plague. 

It’s dated today. 

Clint heaves a sigh.

“Guess we’re going to Rotterdam.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Five

_Moneypenny_

 

Eve rolls her head, trying hard to ignore the crunching sound it makes. Sand in her c-spine vertebrae? Old age coming on faster than it should, now that she spends her days behind a desk? Too many possibilities, none of them pleasant. 

What she _does_ know for sure is that it’s time to go home.   

She bangs out a quick note to file summarizing her findings, and flags it to M’s morning package. It will have to be sent on the high side; she marks it for M’s handler in Brussels to deliver it to the boss by hand. 

Then she sends a text to Bond. 

“Venice is nice this time of the year.” 

James is a smart boy. He’ll figure it out. 

She takes one last look around the office – they still haven’t fixed all the bomb damage, but the hole in the wall just gives the place a certain street cred. Lights off to save the planet, computer off to save Eve from a security infraction, and done. 

Eve winks at the security guard as she signs herself out at the front desk (leaving after hours always creates paperwork) and waits for a cab to hail. Her flat isn’t that far, but it’s two in the morning and the taxpayers can bloody well pay to take her home safely, given that they refuse to let her have a parking spot.

The air is mild, and the smell of the river strong; people should be asleep by now, but there’s steady traffic heading for Westminster. The sirens she heard earlier have stopped now. She’s just about to go back into the building to ask security to call her a cab when one rounds the corner; the hailing light is even on, hallelujah. 

Five minutes later the cab drops Eve off in Vauxhall, and she heads up the stairs to her little flat. In retrospect, she should have realized that the key should not have turned that easily in the lock - but by that time, she can already feel the cool metal of the muzzle of a gun, pressed against her temple. 

They’re rough, but not sadistically so. There is no gag – the gun, they must have rightly figured, will suffice to keep her from screaming – and when they manhandle her into the back of a limousine the pushing is more pragmatic than brutal. 

Whoever ordered her kidnapping does not like their car’s cream-coloured upholstery ruined by blood. Maybe even wants her alive, undamaged. Eve forces herself to breathe evenly. 

 _Not the end yet._  

Now it’s just a question of time before she can find out what they want. 

The two goons who had seized her get in on either side of her; Eve is about to ask about a seatbelt when a female voice from the front seat intones, in that acquired Oxbridge accent that only M can pull off and not sound like a twat:

 “So tell me, Miss Moneypenny. Why is MI-6 so interested in where I and certain members of the Security and Intelligence Committee have been travelling?”

 

…..

 

_Romanoff_

 

“Venice? Why does your Moneypenny want to send us to Venice?” 

“Maybe she found something else on Hawley. And she’s not _my_ Moneypenny.” 

Natasha handles the second half of his response with a single raised eyebrow, as Bond goes on to justify his end of the decision they’ve already made. 

“Hawley is dead already. I think we need to look at whoever is still active, so Dowar and Aylesbury are our best leads. And _they_ have stronger connections to Rotterdam.” 

There’s a bit of argument en route to the airport, with Bond, to his credit, playing the loyalty card. But ultimately he, too, comes out in favour of Rotterdam first, then Venice. (Good thing Europe isn’t that big.) 

Once on board, it just remains for Natasha to decide what is worse, Clint and Bond trying to out-macho each other over who gets to fly the small MI-6 jet, or trying to get actionable intelligence from Tony Stark. 

 _“It’s not a Quinjet, but it’ll do. Been flying those babies since before your Quartermaster was born.”_

_“He’s not my Quartermaster, and I’ve seen you drive a car, Barton. You think I would trust you with a plane?”_  

And so on. The idea of Clint wanting to fly an unknown plane rather than resting up his injured arm is ridiculous, of course, but Natasha knows him far too well to mention it. 

“Guys,” she finally says over her shoulder, as Iron Man’s image appears on her smartphone. “Can’t you just shut up and flip a coin?” 

“Agent Romanoff. By your tone, I gather you found Agent Barton,” Stark says, his voice tinnier than usual given the inferior speakers. “So where has he been while everyone else was busy saving the world again? Vegas? Tahiti? Making the beast with two backs in Paris?”

Natasha refuses to rise to the bait. 

“Don’t be crude, Stark, or I’ll tell Pepper to wash that mouth of yours out with Drano. Besides, remember who gave S.H.I.E.L.D. the improvements to the design for those helicarriers that Hydra built?”

He glares at her briefly. 

“Now be nice, Romanoff, or I won’t tell you what I found out.” 

“So you did find something?” 

The jet is taxiing now, so one of the flyboys must have won the argument; Natasha doesn’t really care which. She knows Clint is as good a pilot as he is an archer, and Bond was saluted by the people on the airfield, so he, too, probably knows what he is doing. 

Stark delivers a thirty-second monologue, about the general presumptuousness of women who mistake his genius for being a pushover when they want stuff. (“And don’t even get me started on Hill, she barely even moved into the Tower before she threw out the Tassimo and replaced it with a Nespresso machine!”) By the time he finally gets around to dispensing useful information, Natasha is ready to strangle him.

“You know I no longer deal with these people, so everything I’m about to tell you comes from JARVIS’ own research. _Not_ personal knowledge. Just so we’re clear.”

Stark’s eagerness to distance himself from his past as an arms dealer is one of the few endearing things about him, and so Natasha nods where she hopes he’ll see it on his screen.

“JARVIS cross-referenced your three primary targets to trade fairs, conferences, and lobby groups connected to defense procurement and major contractors, including parts manufacturers. He included the members of the Congressional Committee that grilled you and took pot shots at me, starting with our beloved Senator Stern. Then cross-referenced both those contractors and the good politicians with the IP numbers for all the major offshore banks.“ 

“Names, Stark. We need names.” 

Surprisingly, he complies without injecting another smartass observation. 

“Lockheed Martin. BAE. Fujikawa. Hammer Industries, A.I.M., Halliburton. Klaue.” He hesitates a little, looking pained. “Stark Industries, up to 2008, when I took us out of the game. Bunch of bit players I wouldn’t waste time on.”

Natasha doesn’t bother to point out that while SI may gotten out of the arms business proper, they’re still very much into supplying dual use technology _. Like selling those repulsor engines to S.H.I.E.L.D._ She keeps silent; let the man have his illusions, and his dignity.

Stark’s eyes slide to the side, and his hands seem to be busy with something that’s not his phone.

“Focus, Stark.”

He looks up unapologetically. 

“Saving the world one byte at a time, Agent Romanoff. I won’t bore you with the details, but your three politicians are doing well for themselves financially. Not on my level, of course, but rich enough they’ll never have to pay taxes again. Not that they do so now. Panama is a popular place for them to send money. Also the Channel islands.” 

Natasha raises an eyebrow. _Do tell._  

“How about members of the World Security Council?” 

Tony scrunches up his eyes, as if he were trying to see more clearly into an ill-defined distance. 

“One of them has done extremely well on parts and components - ball bearings, rivets, steel plates, fittings. Plus construction, cleaning and catering services on military bases and facilities, including the Triskelion. Come to think of it, the extra bill for that stuff alone should have tipped people off to the size of Fury’s basement.”

“Services? Like Halliburton?” 

Apparently Clint has lost the argument about who gets to fly the plane. Tony looks out at him from the small screen, and nods. 

“And Legolas hits the jackpot. Not Halliburton, in this case, but one of their competitors, an outfit named Quantum. Fingers in many pies, as I recall – mostly bad apples and cherry bombs.” 

Bond lets out a hissing curse – seems like he has heard of them before - but Natasha isn’t done. So many questions.. 

“What about Rotterdam? Any of them operate through Rotterdam?” 

Stark shrugs. 

“ _Everyone_ operates through Rotterdam. Biggest port in Europe. Entry into the EU. About to go on a wild goose chase, are you?” 

Natasha sighs. 

“Can you get JARVIS to give us something a bit more specific, Stark? Our intel suggests there may be something big coming into port there, so that’s where we’re heading.” 

He doesn’t need to know that their ‘intel’ is a doodle on a piece of scrap paper; these are desperate times, and sometimes the classics work best. 

Stark upgrades his shrug to a contemptuous snort. 

“Good luck finding anything. There are something like 25,000 ships entering that port every year. That’s 70-plus a day, not counting local traffic and tourist boats. Some 12 million containers, coming in from Asia, Africa, and the Americas, to get shipped out all over Europe from here. Not to mention the silos of orange juice and mountains of kitty litter that sit there waiting for distribution and the bazillion – mathematical term here – of trucks and trains that pick up what everyone drops off. Needle, meet haystack.” 

He looks from Clint to Natasha, shaking his head. 

“But don’t let me stop you, Sherlock, Dr. Watson. I’m sure you have an instinct for rotten apples. I’ll get JARVIS to do some more data crunching. Say hello to the red light district for me.” 

He signs off, and Natasha leans back in her seat, wondering whether they’re about to waste their time.

 

 

…..

 

  _Barton_

 

Well, Stark wasn’t wrong. Even from a distance, the port of Rotterdam makes it clear that it is the beating heart of the world’s largest economic zone, a clanking, steaming machine with endless metal parts that takes in and pumps out the products and produce of millions through hundreds and thousands of watery arteries.

Clint turns the car they’d rented at the Rotterdam airport – this op is off the books, no limo service here - off the highway. There are the usual road signs, but then there’s …

“ _Havens fifty-eight hundred to six-fucking-thousand?_ How many berths does this fucking place need?”

Assuming, of course, that _havens_ means something like _berths_. Or basins. It sure sounds like it.

“Biggest port in Europe,” Bond responds laconically from where he’s riding shotgun, clicking his magazine in and out of his Walther PPK. “Used to be in the world, until Dubai and the Asians got in on the act.” 

Clint passes a truck with Slovak licence plates, then one with Romanian ones. German. Polish. French. All headed to pick up … stuff that’s come in from somewhere and take it to somewhere else, to people who have no idea how that banana they’re munching on has gotten into their cereal. 

Needle meet haystack, indeed. 

“Nat. Anything more from JARVIS?” 

Natasha has been staring at her Stark Phone since they pulled out of the parking lot, almost as if she could force information to come out of it by sheer power of will. 

“Container port area. Twenty-three vessels docked in the last twelve hours alone, spread over six basins. Most from South Africa, Singapore, Shanghai, and Dubai.” She looks up briefly; Clint can see her eyes in the rearview mirror. “Which means the cargo could be from anywhere. Dubai and Shanghai are among the two biggest transshipment ports in the world.” 

_Fuck._

“And that is helpful how?” 

Bond seems to be on the same wavelength as Clint. 

“One of Stark’s former buddies, guy named Ulysses Klaue, is based in South Africa. But he’s more likely to send empty ships here and pick up things he can sell there. I hear Boko Haram is looking for big-boy guns.” 

Clint finds himself squinting against the oncoming lights. Been a long night. Time to play the odds. 

“So let’s rule out the South Africans then. Dubai?” 

Natasha punches a few more commands into her Stark phone. 

“Most recent arrival is registered in Monrovia; Liberian flag of convenience. Ship called _Bella Trix._ The manifest says the shipment is LCDs and integrated circuits, originating in Busan. South Korea. JARVIS thinks it could be fake, and its real origin is Nampo.”

 She drops her phone, and her voice drops a little to make sure her next message sinks in properly.

 “Also in Korea, but in the North.” 

Bond whistles. 

“A minor slip of geography. To quote Mr. Barton here, ‘I vote we start with that one’.”

By the time they’ve parked the car in a distant area of the basin in the container port where the _Bella Trix_ is reported as having docked, she is empty of cargo, and the lights onboard are dark except for the ones signaling her existence to harbor traffic. She lies alongside several other vessels, with names that remind Clint of the idiotic monikers the Pentagon uses for military operations, like “Enduring Horseshit” or “Deliberate Mismanagement”. 

The _Energy Endeavor_ , an ugly, hulking thing whose hull cries out for a can of paint, is in the process of being offloaded despite the grey, early hour. The massive crane is moving, shifting a large container from one of its frames to the other, to be dropped on a stack of 40-foot containers some six stories high and a dozen wide. Some bear famous names such as “Maersk”, “Han Jin,” or “Hapag-Lloyd”, others nothing but a number. Individual containers litter the dock, waiting their turn to be moved. All look like they’ve been around the world a dozen times or more.

The place itself looks not unlike the dock in Kaliningrad, except better organized, with legible signs and a little less rust. For a moment, Clint wonders just how many of such places there are – Dubai, Shanghai, Hamburg, Singapore, Montreal, Mombasa – full of ships coming in from god-knows-where, carrying god-knows-what. Full of whatever cargo people choose to move around the planet, in patterns known only to a handful of guys in a dockside hut and the yuppies pulling the strings on the stock markets. 

No wonder movement of contraband by container is so popular. How the hell would even the most diligent law enforcement authority know where to look, given they never get the budget to keep a staff of thousands? 

What it all boils down to, though, is that the _Bella Trix_ is empty. 

 _Fuck._  

“So how do we know which of these piles came from our ship?” Natasha frowns. “Short of hacking into the Port Authorities computer …” 

She lets the thought trail off. 

Bond mutters something about Americans, Hamlet, and _the hesitation that makes cowards of us all._ He pulls out his Walther and fires a shot at the top of the container stack that the crane is heading towards, and a second at another mountain along the water. The bullet ricochets off the rectangular boxes with a metallic _clang_ , followed by shouts in Dutch and a couple of other languages. 

“Shortcut,” he says. “Let’s see which of these stacks people are most keen to defend.”

 

…..

 

 

_Romanoff_

 

Natasha suppresses the urge to say something Clint-like. It would be a waste of breath of course, given that half a dozen or so men come pouring off one of the ships now like rats with submachine guns. A number of others, presumably ordinary stevedores, are running for cover; a couple of splashes suggest many of the civilians consider the cold water of the harbour a useful escape route. 

Bullets are starting to zero in on their current position. 

“Shit, man,” Natasha hears Clint object as he ducks behind a single container that seems to have missed its turn on the crane. “You actively trying to attract mayhem? Your middle name Thor, or something?” 

Bond is unsympathetic. 

“You can still draw that bow of yours, can’t you, and take care of whatever rats we just flushed out? Unless you want to let your girlfriend do all the work, of course.” 

“ _Girlfriend?”_ Natasha rolls her eyes as she pops off a couple of rounds with her Glocks, resulting in two bodies falling down. “You really need to examine your vocabulary, James. _Girlfriend_ is _so_ last millennium. I’m his _woman_.” 

The hostiles seem to be drawing ranks around the crane, which has stopped moving as its operator has wisely decided to hide under his instrument console. 

A couple of pops later and another couple of guys go down, one cursing in what sounds like Portuguese, the other in Tagalog.   Bond may be a dinosaur when it comes to women, but he sure can shoot. 

“You happen to have a tin opener, Barton?” he asks, giving an inviting nod towards the dangling container. 

Natasha doesn’t bother looking up when she hears the hiss of two arrows being loosened; there is still a shooter around. The last of the container’s defenders goes down just as it crashes on the concrete dock, the metal cables that had fastened it to the crane neatly blown by two of Clint’s arrows. A small flock of crows flies up from the dock in protest as the container flies apart on impact, spilling its cargo in an explosion of white, semi-crescent shapes that clatter and clang as they strike stone and bounce.

 _Ivory. And Rhinoceros horns._  

Illegal to harvest, sell, and ship since the late 1980s. Ever more popular since, among the world’s kleptocrats who adore nothing more than the _frisson_ of the forbidden. Trinkets for the mantelpiece and aphrodisiacs that spell extinction for some of nature’s most amazing creatures. 

And there are hundreds, thousands of tusks and several dozen horns on the dock now, shimmering in the rising sun like an obscene game of Mikado. 

Clint lets out a curse. 

“That lot would be from the South African boat, I guess,” he spits. “That pile is worth, what - a few mill?” 

“Twenty thousand dollars a tusk,” Bond chimes in. “Three hundred for a single rhino horn. Not sure what that is in pounds these days. A lot.” 

Natasha looks up at the mountain of containers that surrounds them – anonymous, unremarkable, and identical but for the differing colours. The red blood cells of globalization; constantly moving, circulating, oxygenating otherwise stagnant economies. Each forty-foot box will have gone around the world multiple times, carrying cargo worth millions over its lifespan – anything from TVs, tea and textiles, to laundry detergent and household effects. 

And, occasionally, animal parts, weapons, missile delivery systems, bags of cocaine, or human beings. 

The movement of all that wealth is controlled by a global system only as reliable as the people writing and checking the manifests, and the people who write their paychecks. Billions of dollars on the move, every day, with swirls and eddies of corruption and graft under the surface - and the three of them are standing right at one of the nodes where it all comes together. 

Finding an illicit load on the first attempt is a fluke, Natasha knows full well.   Lucky? Maybe.   

But … 

“Something doesn’t add up here, guys. Smugglers throw piles of documents at you when they’re caught, or they play dumb. And if worse comes to worst, they run. They don’t _die_ for that kind of money, no matter how much Mr. Bond here invites them to.”

Clint scans the site for more targets, or would-be shooters, and comes up empty.

“Hydra types would. Assuming they believe this stuff could magically speed up the law-and-order apocalypse, or something.”

Natasha considers this, and dismisses it. 

“As far as I know, rhino horns are just for guys who haven’t heard of Viagra. Don’t think these are the droids we’re looking for.”

Bond squints up at the walls of containers. 

“So, there’s another jackpot waiting for us here somewhere. Your turn to guess which piggybank we should crack next. Only about a million to choose from.” 

He is not, of course, admitting that his initial idea for flushing out defenders was in the least flawed. 

“Anything with Chinese lettering?” Clint ventures. “Maybe we’ll find some of Kim Jong-whatsit’s nukes, headed for Iran. People would be _expected_ to die for _that._ ” 

Sirens are beginning to howl in the distance. The problem with everyone having a cellphone these days, innocent bystanders don’t just hide anymore; they shoot videos, and call the police from behind their cover. Natasha hates that. 

She makes an executive decision- someone has to, and the boys seem to be hung up on playing with boxes some more. Clint is probably right, and there is something extremely valuable and unpleasant _somewhere_ on that dock, and Dowar and Aylesbury have their fingers in it. But without a portable X-ray machine or a Geiger counter they could be here for a very long time. 

Let Hill alert the Dutch authorities, so they can come back with the proper equipment. Let them interdict whatever nasty stuff is trying to make its way to whatever nasty destination. In the meantime… 

“I think Rotterdam is a massive red herring, guys. There’s nothing here but _stuff._ Things you find at the end of the line. What we need is _people._ The ones who pull the strings and move the pieces. And I doubt we’ll find those on a shipping dock.” 

“So where do you suggest we go next, Wise One?” Clint asks, his ear cocked to the approaching sirens.

“I was really hoping you wouldn’t ask,” Natasha admits.

She is almost grateful when Bond’s cell phone chimes an incoming message.

 

**…..**

 

_Bond_

 

Having been shot by someone imbues a relationship with a certain… _honesty_. You always know where you stand with that person, and that the worst is probably behind you. For example, being shaved with a straight-edged razor? Perfectly fine.

Bond feels a smile tug at the corners of his mouth as he clicks on the message with Moneypenny’s face on it.

“Why aren’t you in Venice yet?” the message says.

He surprises himself by missing the emoticon she usually attaches to her missives, however hard they are to decipher sometimes. Must be a generational thing; something people a decade or so younger than himself suckled in with their formula. (This particular message should have come with a colon, followed by a “P”, which Eve had patiently explained as _the Internet equivalent of a raspberry_.) 

“Busy elsewhere,” he replies to her, keeping things equally simple. Best approach is to wait for whatever additional information she will deign to provide, while he follows Romanoff and Barton to their waiting vehicle in a smart trot. (No point meeting up with local law enforcement face-to-face; the Dutch have a reputation for being thorough.)

He is not prepared for the response that pings on his screen just before they get into the car. 

“Me too,” it says. And it’s accompanied by a photograph – of Eve herself, and it’s not the smiling face of her avatar. Bond feels a sudden rush of ice water in his veins. 

Eve’s face is taut, her lips pinched and her eyes closed, and there’s a gun pointed at her head. _Sig Sauer_ 250, he notes almost automatically. The next message is almost unnecessary: 

“We hope you’ll have fun when you get there, Mr. Bond. Maybe you’ll get luckier this time, and find the girl _before_ she dies.”

 

 

There’s a nasty wind coming off the Adriatic, and Barton has to approach the tiny Lido airport from the South, coming in in a wide curve over Venice. The lagoon is full of boats large and small, like plasma platelets in a steady circulation that threads itself into the arteries of the city and its many outlying islands. The Grand Canal, when the main body of _La Serenissima_ comes into view, cuts through the center like a silver snake; to Bond it has about as much charm. 

“At least we know it’s not a trap,” Barton says as he banks the plane over the long island. 

“That depends on how you define _trap_ ,’ Romanoff replies with a slight smile.

“Well,” Barton explains, rather unnecessarily, “We know that they know that we’re coming. And they know that we know that they know. It’s not a trap when everyone knows it’s a trap.” 

“But we still have to figure out a way to keep that element of surprise you’re so fond of, for our eventual attack,” Romanoff answers. 

“What. The Ironman patented barge-through-the-front-door approach isn’t good enough for you anymore? I’m disappointed.” 

“I didn’t say that. Sometimes, the front door is the best door. But it _does_ mean no white dinner jackets for you boys this time around. We should all be grateful.” 

Bond tries to ignore them, but fails. He knows they’re trying to distract him – possibly themselves, too – but their easy, practiced repartee reminds him of Eve far more than it should, causing his mind to produce thoughts he’d rather not be having, and images he’d rather not see. 

_Vesper, floating in the filthy waters of the lagoon, her long dark hair like a halo made of seaweed._

Only her face seems to have morphed into Eve Moneypenny’s; he tries to imagine – doesn’t want to, but somehow _needs_ to imagine - what those tight, gorgeous African curls might do in the water _._ Would they stay the way they are? Would they bob in the current? Or would they relax and …

 _Bloody hell._  

He is almost grateful when Barton banks the plane sharply, following only the briefest of exchanges with the tower. There’s not much traffic at Venezia-Lido; unlike its bigger cousin, this airport tends to be used by private planes only. With any luck, their welcoming committee (if any) is at Marco Polo, not here. 

A few minutes after securing the plane, they’re in a water taxi headed for the city across the lagoon, its driver gesticulating wildly from the pier and regretting his cappuccino break. Again, Bond doesn’t argue about taking the helm. Let Barton play skipper if he wants. He doesn’t really give a tinker’s dam about the funny look Romanoff casts at him about his sudden complacency, either.

Dodging and passing smaller, slower vessels, water taxis and the occasional _vaporetto_ , Barton brings the boat into one of the lesser canals in the Castello quarter. Romanoff, it appears, has a private safe house from her pre-S.H.I.E.L.D. days that she _thinks_ she’s managed to keep off the books (and her own internet data dump). 

Guess they’ll find out in due course whether she’s right, or whether there’s a welcome party. 

The buildings sliding by on either side of the canal are the usual mix of splendor and decay, evidence of the centuries-long struggle of mercantile ambition against an unwillingly harnessed nature. The lagoon extracts its revenge though, in the form of brackish backwaters, algae-covered pylons, rusting moorings and splintering doors.

Tourists may find all that rot romantic; to Bond it’s nothing more than a pretty accurate reflection of how he feels about the place. He looks out at the waters, reflecting the grey of the early morning, but quickly averts his eyes when a face peers back at him accusingly from below.

 _Vesper._ _No, Eve._ Does it matter?

“You okay?” 

Romanoff, who never misses a thing. Bond shrugs off the question, and the memory. 

“Fine.” 

She gives him a lingering look. 

“Stay sharp, Bond,” she says. “We can’t afford losing you. Too many jobs to do here.” 

“Fuck you.” 

The curse, surprisingly, clears his brain. 

Clearly, whoever is holding Moneypenny is not going to kill her until Bond has walked into their trap. Following Barton’s logic, it’s no longer a trap when you know you’re being baited; mice would probably argue it still is, but hadn’t they agreed a long time ago about the second mouse getting the cheese? 

The decision to take a quick break and come up with an actual plan might actually work in their favour. Taking their time might lead their opponents – whoever they are – to make mistakes, leave some clues - although it doesn’t exactly feel like the right thing to do right now. 

Would they let Eve drown, like they had Vesper, if he’s not there to watch her die? Because where’s the sadistic fun in that?

Barton docks the boat at a small landing marked by a slightly rotting wooden pole, and a green door that could use a coat of paint. There is no recognizable lock, but Romanoff does something with the wrought-iron decorations and it opens. 

The air inside is stale, but the steps leading up bear none of the markings of the increasingly frequent floods that spell Venice’s eventual doom, and the moldy, damp odour Bond always associates with the ancient city is kept to a minimum. Romanoff must be paying someone to keep the apartment clean - just how much money _did_ she make before she went straight? 

“Home sweet palazzo. Hope the coffee machine still works.” 

Barton’s words suggest he’s been here before. Before long, the smell of Nespresso fills the air, and Romanoff throws some frozen bread slices in a toaster. They’re not talking much, just moving with a unity of purpose Bond finds as oddly disconcerting as the low murmurs coming from the kitchenette – a private conversation from which he feels excluded even as he has no desire to be part of it.

 _Would he and Vesper ever_ … No point thinking about it. 

In his more rational moments, Bond knows that Vesper had an agenda; that their entire… _whatever it was_ had been based on smoke and mirrors and a whole lot of self-deception. And in those moments, he finds himself hoping that she really hadn’t cared for him. It would help. 

Maybe it helps Barton that he knew who and what Romanoff was long before they ever became partners and lovers? Or maybe Barton knows she is pretending (like Vesper had been), and just doesn’t care? 

 _Fallaces sunt rerum species._  

Bottom line is, when it comes to women probably neither James Bond nor Clint Barton will ever really know the difference between what’s real and what’s not; maybe – probably – that’s for the best. 

And that shot Moneypenny had taken at him back then, it turns out, really hadn’t cleared up anything at all.

 

 

 


	6. Six

_Barton_

 

“Any way of figuring exactly where that picture was sent from?”

Clint is all business. Chewing on his toast as he speaks is not callous. It has a purpose: Keeping your body fuelled and going and ready for whatever comes next.

Bond washes his own breakfast down with coffee. 

“Irrelevant. Wherever it was, they’re probably not there anymore.”

His voice is cold, almost harsh; Clint recognizes the undercurrent as something you best ignore or punch through. Pragmatism is as good a pile driver as anything, and Natasha is happy to serve. 

“Knowing _why_ they took Eve might help. Bond - would Dowar’s and Aylesbury’s people have brought her here, to talk us out of turning over their special little rocks and stomping on what crawls out?”

Bond’s jawline is set.

“Blackmail? Is for amateurs. Easier to kill her, if they don’t want her snooping around in their affairs.” 

Clint disagrees. 

“Ten to one she’s still alive. Hydra just fucked up that whole idea of pre-emptively killing everybody. They’re regrouping, going from hi-tech back to the classics. Hostages are useful things.” 

He tries, and fails, not to notice the brief glimmer of hope that ghosts across Bond’s eyes at his words; no point in beating around the bush, though. 

“If what we are dealing with here _is_ Hydra. We’ve been making that assumption, but we don’t really know. Somebody wants _you,_ Bond. So yes, they’ll be waiting for you when you get there.”

Natasha, as always, is thinking ahead.

“They sent the message to you, James, from Moneypenny’s phone. Yours was the last number she’d texted, so that was easy. Question is, do they know you’re not alone?”

“I make that fifty-fifty,” Clint offers. “Moneypenny may not tell them, unless they ask specifically.”

He doesn’t really need to spell out the many ways in which questions like that might be asked. 

“But if Dowar’s yuppie reports to the right people what went down in Westminster…” 

“It’s a risk I’ll have to take.” Bond sounds pretty determined, and ready to go – plan or no plan. “Besides, you don’t need to come. I’ll go in on my own.” 

“Like hell you will,” Clint replies. “Don’t be an idiot. At least, not more so than usual.”

The coffee and food seem to have done their job, and Clint finds both his companions are as keen as he is to get going. A quick link-up to JARVIS, and the target is acquired: the erstwhile Councilor Hawley’s private palazzo is located on a small canal off the Canale Grande, near the Rialto Bridge.

 

…..

 

Intel gathering has never been Clint’s favourite thing, but it has come in handy once or twice, and this time they’re (sort of) working for the kind of agency where it seems to matter. M may not be his real superior - that’d be Fury if he wasn’t busy playing dead right now - but he owes her a favour.

Bond is itching to wreak havoc immediately, that much is clear, but even he understands that the chances of finding Moneypenny alive may be improved if they don’t start with the nuclear option right off the bat. Besides, he actually works for M. 

The final straw is Natasha’s argument that estimating the number of opponents or determining the most auspicious timing for a strike might actually improve their chance of success. 

“Won’t hurt to find out what we’re dealing with inside,” Clint concedes as Bond frowns. There’s no way of knowing how many people there may be inside Hawley’s palazzo. The surest indicator of a crowd inside, parked cars, is a non-starter in Venice, and there are only so many boats you can tie up on one of those stripy barber-pole things

Luckily, Natasha is as much a spy as she is an assassin, and since it’s daylight anyway (and every corner of Venice is crawling with tourists fresh off the cruise ships in the lagoon), Clint, for one, is perfectly happy to hand her the reins for a bit. 

Her little hideaway comes equipped with a closet full of useful spy shit. Even Bond, moody and impatient as he is, stops pacing to be impressed by the number of ropes, grappling hooks, listening devices, and lethal doo-dads she’s got stashed away. 

“What were you planning here – break into the Doge’s Palace and make off with the paintings?” 

Natasha gives him her most patient smile, the one she usually directs at Clint when he flaunts his lack of PhDs, or at Stark whenever he exists. 

“The good stuff is all in the Accademia or in Florence,” she says. “No, this is in case we run out of tequila, and Harry’s Bar is closed.” 

Well, whatever it’s for, it comes in handy now. 

Natasha holds one of her gadgets out for Clint to see; it’s a microphone he recognizes from that clusterfuck mission in Istanbul. (She keeps souvenirs? Do tell.) Problem is, the receptor is missing, but she’s got that covered. 

“Could you tune your hearing aid to that frequency?” she asks.

He nods, and takes the right one out – the one Stark built, not the Q special. It’s amazing that he’s managed to mostly forget he’s been carrying a small bomb in his ear, but there’s little point in touching the thing unnecessarily, is there? 

A few twist and turns, a spot of programming, and he’s ready to put it back in his ear. Clinton Francis Bell, the latest word in communications technology. 

“Try it?”

Natasha goes to the far end of the room, hold her device up to her mouth and whispers: “Testing, testing …” 

Clint almost jumps out of his skin. 

“Jesus, Nat. You trying to blow my head off?”

“Seems to be working,” Bond says impatiently. “And won’t be as loud from a distance. Let’s get that bug installed, shall we?”

 

…..

 

The Venetian tendency to prettify everything with turrets, chimneys, and gargoyles allows them, from a roof on the other side of the canal, to pick out a nice niche in Hawley’s building where the listening device should not be easily spotted. 

Clint’s arrow flies true (of course it does), even if he has to roll his shoulders afterwards, trying to calm the pain in his biceps as the stitches threaten to pull out. _Fuck Hydra._

The arrow wedges itself in a narrow crack under the roof, out of sight of anyone who may be standing guard on top. Clint waits for a few seconds to see if anyone inside reacts, but they don’t. With waves from the water taxis hitting the dock outside on a regular basis, people have probably stopped giving a shit about unidentified thumps centuries ago. 

He presses a button in his bow and the device, attached to the fletching, begins to unspool until it hangs just below the upper stone frame of the largest window. _There._ Through the window, Clint can see a pair of crystal chandeliers; if anything big happens in this house, this is where it’ll be.

“Get anything?” Bond has come along for the ride, not because Clint needs him, but because Natasha hinted he might drive her nuts with his pacing. _Venting nervous energy,_ she had called it.

Clint’s wince should give it away. 

The sounds flooding into his ear are a mixture of an unpleasant howl (presumably the wind, tugging at the tiny receiver); the occasional bang, as it dangles against the wall; the clinking of china; and a couple of voices speaking Italian. Based on Clint’s limited knowledge of the language and their exchanges, they’re servants, setting up a meeting that will start around eight p.m. 

It’s three o’clock by the time they get back to Natasha’s apartment. 

At four thirty, Bond’s phone pings again. Another picture of Moneypenny, looking drugged and disheveled, but apparently alive. There’s water in the background, over her shoulder, like she’s on a boat. 

“James,” the message says, “Miss me? See you at Death’s shore.” 

Why is it that the people they meet in their line of work always, _always_ tend to melodrama? Some kind of virus people get exposed to when they first decide on a career as a super villain, so that when they’re trying to tell you something of substance, they end up sounding like Bela Lugosi? But rhetoric or not, Clint can tell that the message has an electrifying effect on Bond, and that it’s only heroic restraint that keeps him from hurling the phone over the side of the building and into the nearest canal. 

Clint wants to mumble something sympathetic but as soon as he opens his mouth, the mic in his ear picks up new sounds, and he holds out his hand to quiet his companions. 

 _A man and a woman, talking_. The man has what sounds like a German accent, while the woman’s is one of those posh English affectations that people spend their public school days perfecting in front of a mirror. 

 _‘Really, now?”_ She sounds disapproving. _“Don’t we have better things to do than indulge petty hobbies? I must say, I was hoping for more from this partnership.’_

_‘Don’t worry, my dear Lady. I am quite capable of multi-tasking, and the outcome, I promise, will be worth it for both of us. Besides, it should ensure that Bond doesn’t come here. He sets his own priorities; I’m helping him out.”_

The man’s voice hardens.

_“Don’t worry, my Lady. We will have a solid proposal to put to your associates tonight. Not that you are in a position to impose terms, exactly.’_

_‘A temporary setback. Pierce was an ambitious failure; my arm of Hydra remains strong. I will rely on you not to get sidetracked by personal … things. Anyway, this is the set-up for tonight; I trust it’s satisfactory? A genuine meeting of equals that will allow our colleagues to get to know one another. Security is in place, of course.’_  

The voices fade as the two speakers move out of range. Clint repeats what he heard to the others, and then it hits him: The woman’s voice sounded familiar. 

And wasn’t the distortion of electronic transmission, no, because this is the only way he’s _ever_ heard that voice: In a recording that wasn’t supposed to exist, given how much store the World Security Council set in secrecy; played to him – surreptitiously - by a records clerk, in the bowels of the helicarrier, after New York, to prove that evil came in many forms.

 _A cultivated, English voice, discussing the launch of a nuclear strike against Manhattan, as if she were putting in an order for high tea._  

Just how much money would a well-plugged-in real estate consortium have made with the rebuilding of Manhattan, had Tony not knocked that nuke out of orbit? Wholesale devastation – evidently a fine motivator for the politician with the right portfolio. 

Clint pulls the hearing aid out, turns off the transmission, and sticks it back in, before turning to Natasha. 

“Tasha? Didn’t you say Lady Hawley was dead?”

 

…..

  

_Bond_

 

He tries to focus on what Barton just said, but the words seem to bounce around randomly in his brain, leaving odd echoes of meaning. 

_Hawley is alive. Hydra is having discussions with another organization. A business merger?_

But it all comes back to that picture of Eve, and the gun pointed at her temple. He punches a number on his speed dial; Q picks up almost immediately.

“Can you triangulate an incoming call on a cell phone?” 

Romanoff shoots him a look. _Thought you’d said location of the phone was irrelevant_? 

Bond turns his back on her even as Q sighs into his ear. 

“If it’s still happening, yes. Afterwards? No.”

Bond spits out a curse. 

“Whoa, Double-Oh-Seven, language,” Q admonishes. “What I _can_ do is locate the phone for you, if you have the number. Give me half an hour.” 

Surprisingly, Bond finds himself reciting Eve’s number by heart; it’s Q’s turn to curse. 

“You’ll have the location in fifteen minutes,” he says and hangs up. 

“So, whatever is happening here in Venice, someone’s creating a diversion,” Romanoff observes. Her voice is dry and flat, and for a moment Bond finds himself hating her. Has that woman no compassion? 

“And you, James, are falling for it,” she continues, her tone a little warmer. “Hook, line, and sinker. _Don’t._ ” 

Barton, who hasn’t said anything for a while, takes the doctored hearing aid out of his ear and turns a few buttons. 

“Talk about distraction,” he mutters. “Think we know what we need to about what’s going on at Hawley’s house tonight. Hydra and friends. Happy family reunion.” 

Barton’s eyes narrow; there’s a cold glint in them. “I say we join that party. Preferably with firecrackers.” 

Romanoff picks up his thread; fragments of their argument reaches Bond as if through a wall of static. 

_“Sounds like they’re trying to fix Pierce’s fuck-up.”_

_“But the last thing we need is Hydra building alliances.”_

_“Wonder who the guy I heard is? Can’t be mafia. Sounded kinda German. Different branch of Hydra?”_

_“Talk about your profiling, Hawkeye. Don’t tell me you missed the memo on the globalization of crime.”_  

They talk about assaulting the building, _after_ eight o’clock, when whoever is planning to be there is in place.

 _“Of course, that’ll mean double the goons. Plus, aren’t they kind of expecting us?”_  

“ _Just_   _Bond - not us. It’ll be fun.”_  

From time to time they look at him as if they expect him to contribute, but his focus is on the phone in his hand. Finally, it rings. 

“The phone has been on intermittently,” Q says without introduction. “I managed to track the cells that picked up its signal. The first one since I last saw Moneypenny…” 

“I don’t care about the first one. Just the last one.” 

Q sounds almost apologetic. 

“Quite. The last one came from the tower at Lido airport. No signal since then. I can’t tell whether that’s because the phone is off, or whether there’s no signal now. You, by the way, are being serviced from San Marco. Different cell.” 

More softly, he adds, “I hope you find her.” 

“Lido,” Bond says, as he slides the phone back in his pocket. 

Romanoff’s brows furrow, and Bond can practically hear her think. 

“Map,” she says. “We need a map.” 

Barton walks over to a bookshelf, and pulls down a folded tourist map of the lagoon. He opens it up on the desk and smoothens out the folds. Together, the three of them follow Romanoff’s finger as she runs down the length of Lido island, from the airport to a tiny dot in the water, about two-thirds of the way down. 

“Poveglia,” she says. “The Island of the Dead.” 

The island’s reputation, according to Romanoff (who seems to have spent more time in her Venice spider hole than she’d previously let on), stems from its use by the Venetians as a place to stash plague victims – the living brought there to die, and the festering, disease-ridden bodies to be dumped into pits. 

In the 20th century, someone built an asylum there for the incurably insane; rumour has it that inmates were tortured by a soul mate of Dr. Mengele’s. He, in turn, had ended up hurling himself off the church tower, presumably under possession by The Dead. All that collective unpleasantness had resulted in major bad vibes, and the locals avoiding the island, except for the occasional drug-laced rave.

The place had recently been sold to a private buyer for unknown purposes. Another place like that island of Da Silva’s, where crime lords hold sway and run their own miniature civilization? 

“Let’s go,” Bond says, not caring how impatient he sounds. 

“You’re not going anywhere,” Romanoff responds coolly. “M gave you a mission, and you have a job to do.”

She wards off Barton’s impending protest with a raised hand, and turns to her partner. 

“You too, Clint. You owe MI-6. You two look after Hawley and her merry men. I’ll go to Poveglia and find Moneypenny.” 

Bond’s eyes narrow, and he takes a breath that puffs out his chest as he takes a step into Romanoff’s direction. But her voice brooks no resistance, and she looks directly at him. 

“I’ve been where you are, James. And you know I’m right. You’re compromised.”

  

…..

  

_Barton_

 

He almost hates leaving Nat’s apartment; the few hours they’d spent inside the familiar space, getting ready, had been the first time in several days during which Clint had felt a modicum of peace. And what does that say about his life, when a safe house feels like home? 

Well, all good things, and all that. 

Approaching Hawley’s palazzo from the water would be stupid, even if they weren’t more or less expected. Coming in over the roofs from the next canal over, from where he’d fired that arrow with the listening device, is the obvious choice. Good thing real estate is scarce when you build on water; there’s very little space between most of the buildings in the Dorsoduro quarter, even this close to the Canale Grande. 

Clint looks back at Bond, who follows him effortlessly in their little game of renaissance parkour, over brick promontories, across terracotta tiles, and past gargoyles whose noses are missing due to age and pollution. The man is not exactly happy, but he hadn’t argued (much) with Natasha’s edict, and seems focused. Still a professional, then. Good. 

Clint pats down the sides of his tux. He much prefers assaulting enemy positions in his tac suit, but Bond’s the spy, and his reasoning had been persuasive: _Wear something that’ll blend in._ If this is a merger meeting, the minions on either side won’t necessarily know each other – it’ll be like crashing a wedding, where all you need to do is pretend your from the groom’s side (or the bride’s), depending who asks. 

Of course, most people in tuxes don’t have a bow on their back and a quiver on their hip, but that, Clint reasons, can be stashed somewhere during the spy part of the evening. He’ll figure something out. 

The Hawley palazzo comes into sight, and Clint raises his hand. 

Dusk has fallen, but there is still some light in the Western sky, and the orange roof tiles make it easy to spot potential targets. Or to _be_ spotted. 

Sure enough, there are several dark figures on the roof, carrying what does not look like welcome banners. Based on their respective sightlines, they’ll need to be taken in a very specific order… 

Bond, fellow professional, seems to agree: “5, 3, 2 for you, 6, 1, 4 for me. Left to right. Go.” 

Clint is content to let Bond take the lead for now; under the circumstances; the man seems to be needing it. Three arrows and three shots from a silenced Walther later (plus one splash that’ll hopefully be drowned out by the steady traffic on the Canal Grande), and the roof seems clear. 

“Moving over,” Bond announces, and takes the jump over onto the Hawley family mansion. The space no longer appears to be contested by dark-suited minions, which Clint considers to be a bonus. 

“Now what?” he asks. “Do we, like, burst in and shoot everything in sight? Or should I use one of my explosive arrows?” 

“We go in.” Bond sounds determined. “For all we know the thing with the plague pit island is a red herring, and Moneypenny is here.” 

Of course. 

Clint shrugs his acceptance. 

It doesn’t take them long to find the entrance – a door in the turret facing the canal. Clint puts his Stark-enhanced hearing aid up against the door. Thank goodness the transmission is turned off now, that had been enough of a pain during the afternoon recce. Who knows what a full-on meeting of criminal masterminds would sound like? A presidential debate?

“Nothing immediate,” he says, and shoulders the door open before Bond (and his Walther) gets the chance. Silencers are one thing out in the open; in closed spaces, ain’t nothing like an arrow to make a statement without anyone overhearing. 

There’s only one guy at the bottom of the stairs; the close look he gets at one of Clint’s arrows is his last. The corridor he’s been guarding isn’t particularly impressive or palace-like. 

“Top floor. Servants’ quarters,” Bond answers Clint’s unasked question in a whisper. _Of course._ Tender aristocratic footsies can’t be expected to climb stairs. 

“So – full of goons then?” 

Bond shrugs, and points to the stairs with his gun. 

One floor down, and things are beginning to look more palatial. Marble walls and floors, the latter covered with Persian-looking rugs that Clint hopes are taped down in case they have to run. 

Bond holsters his gun, and watches as Clint hangs his bow and quiver over the upraised palm of some naked statue. 

“Seriously?” he asks, one brow raised in English disapproval. 

Clint shrugs.

  
“Plain sight. People will think it’s a statement piece. _Post-Modern Cupid_ , shit like that.” 

He straightens out his tux. Again. Last time he pulled that thing out of Natasha’s closet, he’d been eating properly; thing doesn’t fit right. Maybe Hawley will have some decent hors d’oeuvres?

“Let’s go get us some answers, Double-Oh.”

They head down the wide staircase side-by-side, loose and confident. _Belonging is everything._  

“You sure Hawley won’t recognize you?” Bond asks halfway down. 

It’s a fair question, if a bit late in the game. Oops. Quick rewind of the last decade or so, and… _No._  

“If S.H.I.E.L.D. was a totem pole,” Clint says, “I was the carved monkey, just above where the dogs lift their legs. She’d be the bird at the top, sitting on Pierce’s head. Him and Fury, she’d know. Maybe Hill. Me? Minion.” 

There’s no question that people may recognize Bond; after all, he’s expected – if not, perhaps, in this exact part of Venice. 

There is a hum coming from the left; a dozen or so voices – overlapping, chaotic.

“Meeting hasn’t started yet,” Bond observes. “Good. We haven’t missed anything.” 

He opens the door. _Showtime._  

There is indeed food; waiters waft by with trays of smoked salmon on crackers, little puff-pastry thingies with foie gras, and some mozzarella-and-tomato spears Natasha would kill for. Clint helps himself to a handful – disposing of stuff bought with the proceeds of crime is a good thing – but ignores the drinks in favour of a glass of water. (Professional, yo.) 

The whole affair seems to be about mingling for now, something Bond seems to be a lot better at than Clint. Something in the British genes? Might as well play the surly, thuggish sidekick, and just listen.

There are interesting words, sentence fragments and place names floating around, spoken in boastful tones by people who don’t know each other, but are keen to impress. 

_‘Supply lines to Ukraine….’_

_‘Gazprom.’_

_‘Live shipments, ever had problems with those?’_

_‘When I served on the Procurement Committee….’_

_‘Dubai Port is the best. You can come in with a boat marked from Pyongyang, and they stamp your ass.’_

_‘Can’t trust the Abkhazians, unless they want something from you, or your name is Putin. And even then…’_  

Basically, just like any other gathering of this kind that Clint has attended over the years - on Wall Street, the London FTSE, or a random conference in Asia.   Except everyone swears, not just the yuppies in the pin-stripe suits, and most are packing heat; you can tell by the bulges. He resists the temptation to pat his own pocket, which he knows to be flat. (It’s all in the tailoring, Natasha always says. She has a point.) 

Someone says ‘ _Washington’_ though, and Clint’s ears prick up. But the discussion seems to be about ranking lobby groups in order of effectiveness – and Congressmen in order of susceptibility – rather than about helicarriers falling out of the sky. _Boring._

Clint wonders just what Bond might be worming out of the pale-blonde ice queen he’s homed in on, when somebody is clinking a glass. 

“Gentlemen,” says a female voice, cool and commanding. She adds, in a tone meant to sound humorous but failing, “ _And_ Ladies. Of _course_.” 

Lady Pamela Hawley looks just like in the illicitly-stored recordings Clint had watched after New York: Ash-blonde bob; pinched lips slightly rouged; wearing a no-nonsense suit that’s so plain it probably cost her ten grand. Her left shoulder droops a little and her arm is in a sling. (So she didn’t get away from the Triskelion entirely unscathed; for some reason, that makes him feel better.) 

“To those of my friends who do not know him, allow me to introduce Monsieur Le Comte de Bleuchamp.” 

A gaunt-looking, middle-aged man of medium height in a white dinner jacket inclines his head just so, his lips moving in what might have been a greeting – or a curse. 

“Let me get straight to the point,” Hawley continues. “Both your organization, Monsieur le Comte, and mine have recently experienced temporary… _setbacks._ thanks to the interference of certain parties. But we are still here, ready to be stronger than ever.” 

There is polite applause, and the occasional “Hear, hear.” Clint has never understood what that is supposed to mean; a comment on people like him, to pay attention? He scratches his ear, remembers the bomblet inside, and drops his hand a little too fast. 

Hawley is on a roll. For someone who’s just had part of a building dropped on her, she makes for a remarkable motivational speaker. 

“Every catastrophe brings with it opportunities for business, whether it’s an alien invasion, a simple conflict or, as an American acquaintance of mine is fond of saying, a housing crisis. Hydra has been good at sowing conflict; unfortunately, that arm of our operation is now impaired. We can help each other.” 

A low chuckle goes around the room at that. The man beside Hawley nods – albeit a bit absently, as if he were thinking of something else. The ‘distraction’ Clint had heard her mention earlier? 

 _Moneypenny._ Why take her? And why lay out a path to that island in what amounts to neon breadcrumbs? 

Talk about distraction. It sure is working on Clint; he’s been losing the thread as Hawley lectures her audience – now, she’s on about grafting whole new economies onto existing ones, or some such thing. He perks up briefly when she opines that Alexander Pierce had clearly lacked in vision, looking for something as ephemeral as political power, when there are empires to be built and political success can always be bought, and blah, blah, blah. 

She may be talking about seriously lucrative shit here – war futures! liquidation sales! - but Clint’s mind is no longer tracking the words. He’s thinking of Natasha, headed for that trap designed for James Bond, when someone bumps into him from behind. Presumably the guy wants to get a better view of the dais; ironically, Hawley’s partner-to-be is currently stepping off, even though the Good Lady is still droning on. The crowd parts as he goes.

Clint turns around at the sudden contact. He’s about to say _hey_ , or something equally alpha-male-like appropriate for a company of thugs, when he finds himself staring into a familiar face: Gunther Petzold. last seen on a dock in Kaliningrad. 

“Barton?” the man says, sounding genuinely surprised. “I thought you were dead.”

 

…..

 

 

_Natasha_

 

At the operator’s insistence (with which Natasha had been perfectly content) the boat pulls up at the opposite end of the island, the furthest point from the old sanatorium complex. He stuffs the wad of Euros she hands him into his shirt pocket with a trembling hand. 

“You sure you want stay here, _signorina_? This place is bad. Very bad,” he says. His English is broken, but no translation is required to detect the urgency and sincerity in his tone. He points at the sky. “And is getting dark.” 

His fear is palpable and real. Folk tales have a life of their own, but Natasha knows they do not come from nothing. Whether it is fear of infection or fear of haunted spirits, the tens of thousands left to die and rot on Poveglia have made people wary of the ‘plague island’ for centuries; the abandoned asylum is just the icing on the cake of popular nightmares. 

Natasha, who has seen aliens stream from a hole in the skies in the here and now, just nods at the boatman. 

“I lost that bet fair and square,” she says. “Thank you for your concern. My friends will pick me up in the morning.” 

“If you are still alive.” 

The boatman gives a wide, Italian shrug that practically screams, _I tried to talk some sense into her, but what can you do with foreigners?_ He puts his engine into reverse, wasting no time to put distance between himself and the spirits of Poveglia. So hasty is his departure, Natasha barely has time to roll her eyes. 

With any luck, the sound of the motor has been drowned out by the sputtering helicopters of the rich and famous, who seem to be arriving in a continuous stream at the Lido airport. Thank goodness for the Biennale, set to open in a day or so. 

Hopefully, Hawley’s henchpeople – assuming they are in fact here on the island - brought a boat of their own she can use later. But if worse comes to worst, she can always swim the 500 meters or so that separate Lido from Poveglia, and hoof it back to Bond’s plane. The water isn’t quite as putrid here as it is in the canals, and it won’t be the first time she’d made it to an extraction point without transport. 

The island is, by any measure, tiny, one of the smallest in the Lagoon. From her landing site to the canal that dissects the island it’s only fifty meters, across terrain that is only partly protected by trees. Someone sitting on the bell tower by the old sanatorium would have excellent sightlines. It’s supposed to be bricked up, to stop the desperate or the insane from hurling themselves to their death, but who knows? 

She reaches into her pocket for the miniature scrambler Q had given her - out of pity, it seemed at the time – sets it up underneath a shrub, and activates it. Range is about two city blocks, which should suffice for tiny Poveglia. If someone were to see her, at least they’ll have to climb down a few steps to warn others. Any second you can buy in combat is a good second. 

Natasha stays low, using the occasional shrub for cover, until she reaches the bridge. It’s probably the most exposed location on the island, but the alternative is wading through the canal. It’s probably not the Dead Marshes from those fantasy movies Clint likes so much, and no skeletal hand will emerge to grab her ankles, but Natasha has no particular desire to get wet. _Yet._  

No, crossing by way of the bridge it will have to be. 

She curses as she trips over a tree root where none should be, then hisses in surprise. The thing sticking out of the soil looks, to all intents and purposes, like a human bone - a femur? 

“Боже мой.” The curse escapes her lips before she can stop herself. 

One of the articles she’d looked at on her smartphone on the way over had theorized that about half the island’s land mass contains human remains. Ridiculous, of course, but then again, a hundred-and-fifty-or-so thousand plague victims, buried on a surface the size of a city block… The dead must have been stacked several layers high. 

Natasha shakes off the thought with an involuntary shiver, and moves on without giving the obstacle by her feet a second look. She does, however, resolve to keep an eye on the ground from now on. 

There’s a building to the right, just as the image on Google Maps had shown. It’s half fallen in, and the windows have been speared through by the island’s lush vegetation. But there is something on the outside wall – black spray paint. Fresh, not peeling, like the ochre background itself. 

Natasha squints at the image, and catches her breath. _The Hydra logo._  

No. Wait…

She looks again, and realizes her mistake – an easy one, she concedes to herself. The stenciled symbol has a head and tentacles, not unlike Hydra’s odd squid-like creature, but the head lacks the skull’s eyeholes, and the tentacles aren’t curled. They hang down straight, like running paint, and there are seven of them, not six.   

A shitty paint job? Post-Washington spin-off? Or a different animal altogether? She runs through the possibilities in her mind. If the short exchange that Clint had overheard at Hawley’s palazzo was indeed the prelude to a merger, maybe this is the other group’s corporate logo? 

Something tugs at her subconscious, and she squints at nothing for a moment before an image resolves itself, behind her retinas, from memory: _Claire Dowar’s sketch pad._ That well-connected British parliamentarian had been doodling little pictures of her latest club.

Natasha resists the temptation to snort in contempt at the schoolyard aesthetic of the criminal mind. Why do they all seem so fixated on things like funky symbols, codenames, signet rings, or secret handshakes? 

Like the hourglass silhouette of the Black Widow program … _Focus, Romanoff._  

There are no sounds emanating from the building. She brushes aside the plants that half cover the window, looks inside and recoils.

 _An ossuary._ There must be hundreds of skulls, femurs, pelvises, and ribs - all neatly stacked, the pale bones reflecting the light of the rising moon. 

Natasha shudders and turns away. She moves along a line of trees until the main series of buildings – the old sanatorium – comes into view behind them. Built early in the last century, the institution had lasted a few decades, according to the Wikipedia entry she’d scanned on the boat. By all accounts, none of its patients ever actually got any better; quite the contrary. 

And just like those unfortunate plague victims, none of them ever left the island once they’d set foot on its shores. 

Natasha suppresses a shudder at the sight of the unloving institutional architecture, its spalling plasterwork and shattered windows. Shutters, where they still remain, hang crookedly off rusted hinges, and rampant ivy pours into and out of the openings. 

 _The Red Room compound would look like this now_. 

The complex is bigger than she expected, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. She listens carefully and, hearing nothing, steps into one of the open doors on silent feet. 

A long corridor stretches out before her; the fallen plaster and bricks on the floor make for treacherous footing. Fetid water is pooling in some of the corners – whether it comes from a recent rain or the remnants of a pipe system no one bothered to shut off, is hard to tell. The walls are covered in mold, and the smell of decay permeates the salty air blowing in from the lagoon. 

Still, underneath it all, the nature and purpose of the place remain obvious: _Hospital._  

For a moment, there’s another corridor – brighter, cleaner, filled with gurneys that still have wheels, and people running past her. The smell of damp and mold turns into acrid smoke that stings her eyes, and she can almost hear the cries of those left behind, the desperate and the dying. 

But this is Venice, not Sao Paolo – her ledger here is clean, and maybe the dead will remain silent this time.

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Seven

_Bond_

 

The blonde is proving to be a font of information when it comes to intel, if not of the kind Bond usually goes for. She seems to be aligned with the group belonging to Hawley’s would-be partner, and an accountant by choice and conviction; some analyst in MI-6 will have a field day with the information, should Bond ever be in a position to pass it on. 

Her enthusiasm is straight out of a recruitment brochure, but then again, this is a meeting of two businesses trying to convince each other that they are a sound investment. 

“Quantum is _far_ more than just a company,” she insists. “It’s a lifestyle choice. You’ll soon see that, Mr. …?”

Bond smiles politely at the question, lifts his glass of champagne in a toast and turns away before he can succumb to the temptation to grind his jaw. Must be a reaction to the name - although shouldn’t he be immune to those, even here in Venice? – that causes him to collide with the man who had moments ago been standing beside Lady Hawley.

The man’s eyes are oddly warm; his accent vaguely central European.

“You are not supposed to be here, Mr. Bond. Did you not get my messages?”

Before Bond can respond, the man raises his wrist and speaks into a mic hidden inside his sleeve. 

“He’s here. Tell Thompson she’s useless now. Pass it on.” 

Bond instinctively lashes out, but he strikes thin air as the man melts back into the crowd; the space he has vacated is filled with someone large, solid, and armed.  Bond immediately places a kick to the hand carrying the gun, taking some small satisfaction when he can feel several metacarpals break under his heel. 

 _Heel._ Right. The problem with brandnew toys, they’re easy to forget. 

There’s a sudden commotion around where Barton had been standing, and … _Bugger._  

They’ve _both_ been made, it appears. The problem, when you get too good at your job, is that people remember you. 

“Don’t touch my hearing aid, you fucker,” he can hear Barton shouting; seems he hasn’t forgotten _his_ new toy, and hopes someone will help him play with it. For a second, Bond wonders whether anyone could be that stupid, that they’d walk into such an obvious and yawning trap. But people are, as demonstrated by far too many election results. 

And so, expecting Barton’s ploy to work, Bond grabs the nearest thug – there are several converging on him now – twists his neck and puts the still-twitching body between himself and the place where Barton’s voice had come from. From Hydra to human shield; there’s a certain poetic justice in that, all things considered.

Sure enough, the next thing he hears is Barton’s unmistakable raspy tenor, shouting the magic word. 

“ _Boom_.”

 

…..

 

_Natasha_

 

“This place gives me the creeps.” 

The voice echoes in the empty corridor, originating somewhere further up. Almost gratefully, Natasha shakes the cobwebs out of her mind and forces herself back into the here and now. 

The voice is followed by a second one, whose owner is trying a little bit too hard to sound nonchalant. 

“What. Lack of maid service freakin’ you out?” 

The first speaker isn’t interested in testosterone one-upmanship though. His voice cracks, and he refuses to rise to the bait. 

“C’mon, you know bloody well what I mean. What if there really _is_ ghosts here? That howling earlier…” 

There’s a sound of a creaking floorboard as someone moves around. 

“And to top it all off, the cell service ‘ere is fucking erratic. Complete fucking crickets, right now.” 

“Yeah. _Who you gonna call_?” The other man cackles at his own wit, somewhat defensively. There’s a brief pause, after which he makes an admission. “But yeah. This place sucks. Wonder why Number One insisted on stashing that chick here, of all places?” 

The opportunity for the development of interesting theories evaporates in the footfall of heavy boots coming up the corridor. 

“We may have an intruder,” a grating new voice says. It sounds a bit out of breath, as if its owner has been running. Maybe, in the absence of cell service, the gang should invest in drums? “Stay sharp, folks.” 

“Bond?” the second man asks. 

His question is followed by silence, which Natasha interprets as the shaking of a head or a shrug. 

“Gino saw a boat,” the newcomer says. “Not sure if it landed here; it was a fair ways away. But the wake came from Poveglia.” 

 _Well, that answers the question about the tower, then._  

“Could be just tourists, sneaking a peek.” 

“Here? After sunset? Don’t be a moron. No one comes here. Not even for selfies. They’re afraid of what might show in the photographs.” 

 _Ah yes, the ghosts of Poveglia._  

Natasha decides to put them out of their (and her) misery; better to take out small numbers at a time, and three is something she can handle easily. 

Of course, when she makes her way into the room from which the voices had emanated, there are actually five men – two of whom had obviously chosen not to participate in the conversation. 

 _Rookie mistake_ , she chides herself mentally, as she unloads two of her stingers on the two men most likely to be reaching for their guns in time. A well-placed kick to the larynx of the one closest to her sends him gurgling to the floor. He hasn’t quite hit the ground yet when she turns to take her shoulder to one of his remaining comrades, who’d made the mistake of stepping towards her. Ducking a little, she uses his own momentum to lift him in the air, keeping a hold of his arm in the process. A little twist, a scream, a kick to the back of his head and he won’t be a problem for a few minutes – at least not while she disposes of the fifth occupant.

The last man proves a bit more of an obstacle, as it turns out. Not because he outweighs Natasha by about a hundred pounds (he does), or because he is armed (he is - they all are). No, the problem is that he is sitting down. He is turning, of course, to see what the commotion is all about, but his back is shielded by the chair, a foldable metal number. Natasha does a quick calculation before hurling herself in the air with a half twist, kicking him with both feet – chair and all – into the table where he’d been peeling himself an apple. 

She braces herself against the ground with both arms, flips upright again, and strides over to the chair while reaching into her tac suit for a garrote. A quick loop over his neck – he is still trying to extricate his legs from under the cheap Formica table – and he should be ready to talk. 

“The girl,” she growls. “Where is she?”

Because, frankly, the last thing Natasha wants to do in this place is search it, cavity for bone-filled cavity. 

“F-f-fuck you,” he grates out, his vocal chords too compressed to give his curse any authority. 

“Not a chance,” she replies, tightening the wire to show him just how limited his options are. A thin line of blood appears on his neck, and his legs kick out involuntarily as he tries to suck in air that won’t come. “You’re not my type.” 

She releases the pressure for a moment. The first rule of getting someone to talk: You actually have to give them a chance to use their vocal chords. And who knew – he takes it. 

Definitely not Hydra - none of that two-heads-are-better-than-mine mantra for this minion. 

“Tower,” he croaks, eager to cooperate. 

“Thank you. Smart boy.” 

She pulls out her Glock and gives him, as well as the man who’d tried to rush her, a quick, well-silenced tap to the back of the head; no point in leaving survivors to raise the alarm, or to get back up and in her way. After Hydra’s attempt at world domination, Natasha is fresh out of humanitarian exemptions (for anyone other than civilians). 

She takes a quick look around the room. It’s larger than some of the others she’d passed getting here; probably a former operating station, judging by its size, the rusted-out gurney whose upholstery has been gnawed apart by nesting rodents, and some loosely strewn cabinets. No one has bothered to sweep the floor of its debris, but the half-dozen or so foldable chairs are clearly new, as are the handful of sleeping pallets on the floor. 

Minion Central? 

She hesitates for a moment to see whether the commotion has attracted attention. If five of them are in what passes for a common room, it suggests ten more on what passes for duty, at least. A ratio of 2:1 on active watch would be normal for S.H.I.E.L.D., but thugs don’t usually operate to labour code so there could conceivably be more.

Especially given they’re expecting Bond. Say what you will about the guy’s approach to women, he’s no slouch in the fighting department, and the people who went to some lengths to try and lure him here are probably aware of that fact. 

Nothing is stirring, and Natasha decides to venture back out in the corridor, following a quick glance in either direction. 

 _Nothing._  

It’s interesting, she reflects, that in the context of criminal enterprises that literally span the globe – not to mention a decades-old conspiracy founded on political subversion, medical experimentation and a penchant for the occult – someone would spend such extensive resources in a mere kidnapping? And not even for ransom. 

 _Distraction,_ Hawley had called it, and really, it shouldn’t compute. Except – of course it does. The more powerful and diversified the criminal mastermind, business tycoon or politician, the pettier their obsessions, Natasha has learned. Once you control _much_ , the need to control _everything_ seems to become second nature, and woe to the minor obstacle, the occasional screw-up, or the dissident voice.

It doesn’t matter how much money is involved or how much power; however large the ambition may be - in the end, everything comes down to the personal. In fact, throughout much of Natasha’s own professional life, both inside the Red Room and afterwards – before Clint, before S.H.I.E.L.D. – she’d benefitted handsomely from that pathology. 

Which of course begs the question to what extent her actions of the last few minutes may fall into a similar category, no matter how rationally she can explain them to herself? Is anyone truly immune against humanity’s basest instincts and desires, such as hatred, lust, or vengeance? Certainly not the Black Widow, raised to feed on the darkest shadows of the human psyche _._

She shakes off the thought. Now isn’t the time for self-analysis. Let others do that, once the great Hydra/S.H.I.E.L.D. data dump has been mined. 

The more immediate question is this: Who is it that Bond has pissed off so much that they would jeopardize a perfectly rational merger of criminal empires, with a sideshow of “ _come out, come out, wherever you are?_ ”

Unless, of course, the two events are unrelated? Maybe the abduction of Eve Moneypenny had been a long-standing plan, and Hawley’s new business-oriented track towards world domination simply come up in parallel, precipitated by the misfire in Washington? 

First things first: Extraction. Then analysis - if there’s time. 

Natasha has reached the end of the corridor, finding herself looking at a wooden door that is not only half off its hinges, but also missing a couple of boards. Not much by way of cover, but she steps out behind it regardless, using one of the gaps to survey the outside while she is at least partially hidden from view. 

There is a small, cobble-stoned plaza between the building she is in and the famous (or infamous) clock tower, the distinctive look of which tells passing ships that yes, this is indeed the Island of The Dead. The moon is up, and in its light she can see that vegetation is growing out between the stones; in a couple of spots they have cracked completely, allowing small shrubs and even trees to spring up. 

The entrance to the tower is open; remnants of the brickwork that may once have rendered it inaccessible lie scattered amidst the ivy. Natasha looks up, to the top of the tower. 

Sure enough, there is movement in the top window, and a glint – first of metal, then glass, in the light of the gibbous moon. 

Time to let the dead of Poveglia have their say.

 

…..

 

_Barton_

The blast from Clint’s multi-purpose hearing aid seems to have knocked Bond off his feet; didn’t the guy understand the warning? Bond is on his back for a moment, but then recovers his wits and pushes what looks like a very useful corpse off his chest. The other thugs surrounding him were taken by complete surprise and form something like a human wall around him, felled where they’d stood.

Clint looks at the bodies in his vicinity, to see if there’s any twitching. One of them is wearing an odd signet ring, carved with a strange symbol, a bit like the Hydra octopus but not quite. One of the others has it too.

_Business logo? Class ring for the Fortune 500?_

But before he can take a closer look a bullet nearly grazes his cheek; not everyone is down, and curiosity will have to wait, especially if you can’t hear fuck all. 

Clint rolls and dives behind a fallen cocktail table to try and figure out the source of the shot. The room looks like the landscape around Mount St. Helens after the eruption – people flattened in every direction, outward, from a clear epicenter. 

Straight EMP blast, no fragment dispersal. _Cute, Q._ Bond’s dinner jacket seems to be pretty pristine and white, still – a design feature? 

Clint’s, of course, is a complete disaster, having flung himself to the ground to cover his ears. He’s got more to lose than anyone here, especially with one of his hearing aids now shredded into atoms, and machismo is for morons. He fires a round in the direction where the earlier shot had come from. Not worth bothering to look whether it hit.

On the dais, Lady Hawley is a crumpled heap of Chanel, mic still clutched in her hand, like a talisman. The man who’d been listening to her speechifying is nowhere in sight.

Clint points his gun at the last of his erstwhile political masters. A couple of them were decent people, Tasha had said. Both dead now. 

Hawley’s hands are scrabbling through pieces of a chandelier. The shards of glass running through her fingers glint in the remaining light like diamonds. 

 _Money._  

All this, for the money. 

Sell this, buy that, hire folks for a penny, throw them away and don’t pay your bills. Get politicians on your payroll so the law can’t touch you, and gloat as you let them play a global game of _Risk_. 

Party with those who start wars, sell guns to all sides to make sure they last, and when it’s over, sell bricks and glass to the people whose lives you destroyed. And they’ll be grateful for it, too, what with the gracious fundraisers and sorrowful speeches that pave the way for the next round of fun.

Good thing Stark had gotten out of that business when he had. There but for the Grace of God …

Hawley looks up, and straight into Clint’s eyes. Her mouth forms a perfect, surprised little “O”, as round as the barrel of his gun. Whether it's because of the gun, or whether she actually recognizes him, he neither knows nor cares.

“Officially, you’re already dead,” he says. “I’m just setting the record straight. Hydra believes in order, I’m told.” 

The single shot coincides with the one Bond fires at another guest, who’d apparently been making a stupid move. 

“Time to leave!” he hollers at Clint. It’s more of a command than a question, and a lucky thing too, because Clint’s hearing is down to fifty percent and polite requests would be a non-starter. (A minor conceptual flaw in Q’s gadget, that.) Bond makes the universal ‘ _vamos’_ gesture with his thumb; obviously, he’s figured this out for himself.

Of course, there are numerous obstacles between them and the exit; guards not exposed to the effects of the blast are starting to pour into the room. Time for Bond to up Clint’s party trick with a bit of Q-magic of his own.

“Cover, Toto,” he snarls. He waits for a split second to make sure Clint heard him, pivots to reduce the likelihood of friendly fire, and clicks his heels. 

The effect is a bit like when Stark had pulled the plug on the Chitauri. There are gasps and people frantically grabbing at the spots where those tiny arrows made contact, but their fingers curl and stiffen almost immediately. A dozen or so men fall at the same time, in a grotesquely choreographed _danse macabre_.

Clint had no idea Q’s imagination could be this … dark. Wouldn’t poisoned arrows be covered by the laws against chemical weapons? Truth is, though, right now he doesn’t really care.

And neither does Bond, apparently. He tells Clint to step back and clicks his heels again, this time aiming the volley up the marble staircase. The grand marble steps are littered with bodies by the time Clint gets to collect his bow and quiver from the surprisingly intact statute. 

He can’t help but gloat a little. 

“Told you no one would notice. Plain sight is a wonderful thing.” 

He lets fly a couple of well-placed arrows into the stairs leading up to the roof; the effect rivals that of Q’s hearing aid, and with better targeting. Squinting at the plaster dust, Bond pulls a slumped body aside and heads out to the roof. 

“You got something in that quiver of yours that will pull the plug on the place and let it drown?” he asks. 

It’s a decent enough palazzo, probably been standing here for five hundred years or so, but Clint isn’t feeling the need to preserve history right now. Plus, who knows what logistical infrastructure is hidden inside – maybe they can burn a couple of purchase orders for North Korean nukes along with the house. 

“You mean, give new meaning to Hawley’s idea of a ‘housing boom’? I like the way you think, Bond.”

Clint waits until they’re a couple of buildings over - no point going down with the ship. With a gracefully arcing arrow, he sinks a shot into the roof top opening they’d used to enter and exit Hawley’s lair.

“Ever watch those really old Star Wars movies?” he asks Bond, as a dull _thud_ echoes through the narrow _calles_ of the Dorsoduro. “Hawley and that Count of hers really shouldn’t have left that hatch open. You never know what’ll fly in.” 

A sudden fireball whooshes over the ancient roofs. Bits of building shoot into the sky like fireflies, only to be swallowed by the waters with a hissing sound. The bigger ones continue to glow for a moment as they go down. 

There’s a grim look on Bond’s face as he watches the fire taking hold in the ancient timber frame, and the flames licking into in the dark waters with a hissing sound. But there’s no time to be wasted.

“This isn’t a movie, James. Let’s get to that death island of Natasha’s before your Moneypenny joins the ghosts.” 

“She’s not my Moneypenny,” Bond says automatically, convincing no one. 

But before they turn away, Clint notices the dark outline of a small boat, leaving the back landing and heading into the Grand Canal. The ripples of its wake make the water look like dancing flames.

 

…..

 

_Moneypenny_

 

The drugs have worn off, their stupefying effect replaced by a throbbing headache. 

No point in letting her captors know that, of course. Eve hasn’t been a field agent for some time now, but she remembers the rules, and Rule One (after ‘ _Don’t Panic’_ ) is ‘ _Never act without first collecting some basic information’._  

Eve keeps her head hanging down, even though her neck muscles are starting to complain, and scans the room from under hooded lids. 

She can see four pairs of legs without turning her head. Given the dimensions of the two walls that are visible from where she is sitting, propped in a corner, this is a small room. So, four people is likely it. 

James Bond might like those odds; Eve does not. 

She has no idea how long she’s been awake. The lengthening of the shadows caused by the cracks in the door suggests maybe two hours? Three? It’s dark now. 

Heavy boots come trampling down nearby stairs. A lot of stairs, with tight turns. Maybe this is some kind of tower? He shouts something about a possible intruder, alerting the others, and keeps going, leaving the door open. 

Someone is coming. Who? 

 _Bond?_

Too much to hope for. Besides - how would he even know where she is? Or be allowed to care? Of all the fish MI-6 has to fry right now, Eve Moneypenny is surely the one most like a minnow, and surely M won’t dispatch her top asset to retrieve a glorified secretary? Moving on. 

 _Intruder._ The voice had said ‘intruder’. Intrude into what? Where is this place?

The breeze coming in now - the first fresh air Eve remembers smelling in what seems like ages - carries the salt of the sea. It’s also warmer than she remembers, by several degrees. She softly, quietly deepens her breath, trying to drive out the residual narcotic with this gift of oxygen. 

“You’d think they’d pick an island with fucking cell service,” one of the men in the room grouses. The telltale click-clack of someone checking a magazine and clicking it back into place reverberates in the small room. “Boss tried to call a few minutes ago, I think. All I got is fucking static.” 

 _Heavily armed. Goody._ Also: Island. The information is just flooding in… 

“The dead don’t need no cell tower, Thompson,” one of the other men cackles, although there’s an odd nervousness to his laughter.

For a moment, Eve’s pulse quickens. _The dead_? Are they talking about her? But then, why use the singular? She forces herself to breathe evenly _. Don’t panic._

If they wanted to kill her, they’d have done so already. Everyone knows the British Government doesn’t pay ransom. Too many beheaded hostages prove that point; that market has dried up. That leaves … 

 _Bait._ She’s being used as bait. But for what?

Eve tentatively tests her restraints, concentrating on minimizing her movement. Zip ties, the cheapskate approach to bondage the world over. Surprisingly effective though, impossible to rip, and won’t biodegrade for at least 600 years. 

 _Bugger._  

“Any word?” 

Another one of the goons sounds a little nervous. _What are they all so afraid of?_  

“Did you hear someone come in and report? Or a phone ringing? No? Then the answer is _no_ , Einstein. We wait. Be ready. And I don’t mean for ghosts.” 

The man who just spoke spits on the ground, presumably to editorialize on the other’s intelligence, gets up and heads for the direction of the stairs. Eve is beginning to appreciate the blindfold exercises MI-6 puts its field agents through; it’s been a few years, but those listening skills sure come in handy. 

 _Ghosts?_  

“You see anything?” the man hollers up the stairs. 

“Negative,” comes the muffled answer. “Place could use some fucking streetlights _.”_

There’s silence for a while, and Eve focuses on her body. Nothing appears to be broken, but her wrists are chafed from the ties and her shoulders ache from having been forced to stay in the same position for Lord knows how long. Her stomach is empty, and her mouth dry; obviously feeding and watering their hostage is not a huge priority. 

 _Maybe._ Time to test things out, and talk.

“Water?” she croaks, her voice sounding worse that she’d thought. “Please?” 

“Lookie here who’s up.” 

One of the men moves in her direction. 

“What’s orders, boss?” he asks. “Do I give ‘er some?” 

There must be a shrug, because there’s a short pause before “Boss” (Thompson?) responds. 

“Can’t hurt,” he says. “Maybe it’ll even pay to be nice, place like this.” 

 _You don’t say. Placate those ‘ghosts’, maybe? What the hell is this ‘place’?_  

Eve can feel the body heat of the man as he gets close to her. She lifts up her head and opens her lips as a bottle is pressed against them. She drinks eagerly, not caring that some of the water runs down her chin; hope is based on moments like this. 

Even better, the sudden movement of her head dislodges the blindfold a little – it must have been in the same place for a long time while she was out - and she can see a ghostly green light flickering the darkness, just outside the open door. 

 _Light. Intruder._ Extraction? 

“The fuck?” one of her captors growls, echoed by shots from somewhere up high (the top of the tower?) There’s a small hiss, followed by a scream, and silence. Eve hopes that means what she thinks it means. The men in the room with her reach for their weapons. 

The guy who had given her the water straightens, turns a little too fast, and loses his balance. Eve rolls her legs a little and moves them over against his feet as he tries to keep himself from falling, then pushes – not so much that he’d notice, just helping gravity along, really. _Oops._ He goes down heavily, even as his buddies head for the door.

Eve turns her head to the wall she’s been leaning up against, and, with nobody’s eyes on her, rubs the blindfold against it. May as well see what’s coming, and be as helpful as possible while hogtied and sitting on the floor. Sloppy workmanship has its benefits; she manages to get one eye free. 

What she sees through the piece of open door that is in her field of vision reminds her of a horror movie - a row of human skulls, with a green glow emanating from their hollow eyes. 

 _A very old, very bad horror movie_. 

Her captors don’t seem to care, though. The three closest to the door open fire with an eagerness that to Eve seems close to desperation (or a release of pent-up emotions?). They barely even bother to take cover behind the frame, heedless of the target they present to whatever is out there in the night. 

Bones are splintering in every direction as one of them manages to hit the target; the green light stays on. 

“Fuck, guys, it’s fake! Gotta be that Bond guy!”

 _Bond?_ The sudden burst of adrenaline that surges through Eve’s body drives out all the residual fatigue and drug-induced cobwebs, and the scene in the room resolves into one of crystalline clarity, in which everything happens in small motion. 

The shooter’s epiphany is short-lived. He flies backwards, his own skull cracked open by a distinctly non-ghostly bullet. More gunfire, and the other two are down; they never even had the chance to dive for cover behind the wall. 

Water bottle man is back on his feet, reaching for his gun just as a shadow darkens the door. Even with only one eye open, Eve realizes that the shadow doesn’t look anything like Bond, but she makes a quick decision: _The enemy of my enemies …_ Lifting her legs high and using the back of the wall to push against, she launches herself forward as best she can and plants both of her zip-tied feet into the back of his knees. 

He screams a curse and stumbles forward, but his movement is interrupted by a well-placed heel that connects with his chin. He flies backward in an arc that would be almost balletic, had it not ended with his skull cracking against the wall; he slides down, limply, on top of the water bottle he had held to Eve’s lips just a few moments ago. The whole sequence makes him look like a puppet, being jerked around by unseen strings. For a moment, she feels a spot of pity. 

But only for a moment. 

“Top of the tower,” she says, and her voice sounds better than it did before. “Not sure how many are left. One came down a while ago, to warn others. Of you, I assume.” 

She recognizes the voice that answers her almost immediately. _Romanoff._  

“I think we’re good. I make ten in total. Unless you noticed any more?” 

 _Ten._ She says it as if it’s a statistic, the end of a working day - not nine lives, gone. 

Eve briefly searches her conscience for regrets, or even just a qualm, but finds only a disquieting sense of satisfaction. Is that what Bond feels, when he comes out of an op? And the other field agents? People like Barton? Is that what makes M who she is? 

Whatever it is, looking at the four corpses in the small room, Eve wants none of it. At least not from this close up, thank you very much, and if that makes her a hypocrite, given who she works for, then that’s perfectly fine.   

What was it that M had told the Committee on Security and Intelligence: 

_Though We are not now that strength which in old days  
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are._

And Eve Moneypenny, former field agent, will be perfectly happy to return to her desk and lead others to people the world could do better without, and leave the killing to them. After a long, hot shower that is, a couple of drinks and a decent night’s sleep. 

But for now, there are courtesies to be followed. 

“Thanks,” she says, and means it, as Romanoff slices through those bloody zip ties with a knife made for purposes Eve can only imagine (and would rather not). And, just because, she asks, “Where’s James?” 

Romanoff gives a little smile, and flicks the knife back into a place in her skin-tight outfit that doesn’t look like it should be able to conceal a weapon. 

“Bond?” She looks at Eve’s face as if she were reading a book, and there’s a little gleam in her eye when she says, “Wreaking havoc in Venice with Clint, I suspect. He really wanted to be here, but I talked him out of it. With any luck, your friends here left us a boat so we can meet them at the airport.” 

Well, then. 

Eve flexes her fingers and wriggles her shoulders in an attempt to restore circulation; the tingling as soon as she’d been freed had come as an unwelcome surprise. She follows the other woman out of the tower, both of them carefully stepping around the dead bodies of her captors. 

And suddenly, the astonishing impact of those green skulls makes a lot more sense, and Eve develops a whole new appreciation for her rescuer. 

The place they emerge into is a nightmare of fallen bricks, crumbled stone and grasping vegetation – decay personified, whose ambience of dread is only increased by the light of the moon. And the skulls? _Are real._  

“Spook central,” Romanoff confirms, although her voice isn’t as firm as maybe it could be. “This place is basically a mortuary. The Plague Island, the locals call it.” 

No wonder the thugs who’d held her had been acting as if they were suffering from terminally frayed nerves. There’s an un-definable, heavy atmosphere here that seems to suck the energy out of life. Eve looks up at the tower, where a limp body is hanging halfway out of the single window, high up, and at the dilapidated buildings on the far side. 

“What about you,” she asks. “You came here out of your own free will. Aren’t you afraid of ghosts?”

There’s a brief silence before Natasha answers. 

“Only my own.”

 

…..

  

_M_

 

There is really no other way to put it: The latest joint operation between MI-6 and S.H.I.E.L.D. appears to have been an unqualified success. It is unfortunate, of course, that it took the dismantling of the latter to finally achieve this remarkable feat. 

The debrief had gone about as well as any one of these things ever do. 

Moneypenny had been very clear, as usual, but possessed of very little substantive knowledge of the actual operation, given she had spent most of it unconscious. Inconvenient, to say the least, but Moneypenny’s lack of knowledge had allowed her to go for the required medical check-up early. 

Bond had reported and answered any question in monosyllables, but at least his references to Venice had been free of the self-loathing he had affected since the death of Vesper Lynd. Perhaps rescuing Moneypenny and blowing up a building linked to the Quantum operation has reconciled him to the continued existence of _La Serenissima_? Still, he had seemed pre-occupied, constantly looking over at Moneypenny, and his report had been somewhat less than fulfilling. 

Barton, as usual, had said nothing at all, just looked at his fingernails as if he were contemplating a manicure, when not staring at his partner. 

That now leaves Natasha Romanoff to do the talking, and M to suppress her distaste for the former assassin. Romanoff, to her credit, is relatively forthcoming and delivers a clipped, factual summary of the high (and low) points of their joint investigation, assessment, and follow-up actions. 

M finds herself obliged to harrumph a bit during the part involving the Houses of Parliament, lest she allow herself an inappropriate laugh. For someone whose very job is the defense of democracy, she does not, truth be told, have much use for its elected representatives. The complaints she had received from both Houses over the nighttime intrusion had been irksome, to say the least. It had given her no little pleasure to note that parliamentary security was the bailiwick of the aptly named Parliamentary Security Department, in conjunction with the Metropolitan Police, not that of MI-6. 

When Romanoff is done, it is clearer than ever to M that there is much left to be considered - but not in the presence of field agents, or even that of her assistant. She surreptitiously checks the blinking light on her phone. 

Perhaps it is gratitude for finally getting a briefing that does not amount to pulling wisdom teeth by hand; perhaps it’s the fact that Romanoff had saved her from having to look for a new assistant; or perhaps she is just getting soft in her advancing age. No matter; M comes to a conclusion that, only a couple of years before, she might not have reached. 

Maybe, sometimes sharing information without expecting something in return is not such a bad idea. She reaches for the file folder on her desk. 

Covered in Cyrillic script and worn with age, it had come that morning by courier, from the MI-6 Station Chief in Kyiv. Not exactly what they had asked for, but certainly on topic with regard to recent events in Washington. 

“Miss Romanoff,” she says, “I assume you and Mr. Barton will be returning to the United States?” 

Romanoff and Barton exchange a quick glance, and nod in unison. 

“In that case, you may wish to take this with you. Your Captain Rogers will find the contents of particular interest, if somewhat disturbing.” 

Romanoff takes the folder, opens it, and flips through it. Her mouth opens slightly and her forehead furrows as she reads. Barton watches her like the proverbial … _well_. 

“We’ve got to get this to Steve,” she says, her voice husky. 

Barton shrugs.

  
“’Kay. Time to go home anyway. I could really use a heart-to-heart with Stark about some of the company he used to keep. And then we need to find ourselves a new job. 

“Maybe you could combine those things,” Bond injects helpfully. “Stark’s rolodex should make for months of entertainment. Good luck.” 

The conversation is drifting away from the necessary. M rises from behind her desk. Time to be gracious, and be done. 

“I suppose I should thank you for saving Miss Moneypenny’s life, in addition to ridding the United Kingdom from an unsightly spot of corruption. Is there anything else I can do for you, agents?” 

The question is the sort a grocery clerk asks of an annoying customer hoping the answer will be ‘no’. Barton, unfortunately, is not the subtle kind. 

“Coffee would be nice?” he says, his voice almost pleading. “Haven’t had one in days.” 

“There’s a café next door,” M replies resolutely, heading towards the door to show them out and hoping that Barton, too, will get the hint. “Café 89. I hear they make a fine espresso. Enjoy.” 

Bond gives her a knowing look as he follows the former S.H.I.E.L.D. agents out. 

“Whatever you’re up to next, M,” he says, “I want a nap first.” 

“Get out, James,” she says. “And do take Eve out for dinner tonight. I believe she could use a drink.” 

She closes the door on his gratifyingly flustered face, walks back to her desk, and turns to her telephone. The _speaker_ icon is still flashing; she switches the device to video and Nick Fury’s face materializes on her monitor.  For a moment, she finds herself unreasonably pleased that he is not actually dead.

“Director Fury,” she says. “I trust you heard everything?” 

“I did.” 

Good. That means she won’t have to repeat anything, and they can move on. She asks the obvious question. 

“What are you planning to do about S.H.I.E.L.D.?” 

He shakes his head, slowly. 

“We’re down,” he says, obviously reluctant to make the admission, “but not out. But there’s a whole lot of work to be done that I’ll have to figure out how to do. Without the Government noticing.” 

Now that is an understatement. 

“At least our agents appear to have taken out what remains of Hydra.” 

Fury’s reaction is not what she expected: He barks a contemptuous laugh. 

“I wish. Hawley’s operation was just a single head. It’ll grow back in a few weeks. Knocking off Hydra’s offshoots is like a game of whack-a-mole, Director.”

He makes a small pause, takes in a laboured breath; clearly, he is not fully recovered from his injuries. 

“Plus, Hawley may have liked to think she was running Hydra after Pearce’s death, but she would be wrong. Hers was no more a fund-raising branch that Pearce and Zola used to finance their plans. One of dozens, I suspect. These guys know how to tap into people who are willing to make a buck off anything.” 

Of course he is right. A long life in intelligence has taught M one thing above all: Criminal organizations are like a tick embedded in the skin of humanity: You can never be sure you have pulled out the entire thing. And what remains causes disease to take hold and fester.

“You are saying that we have not eliminated the real threat.” 

Fury glares at her balefully through the video screen. 

“The real Hydra is a different animal, Director. They’re not interested in money; money is for the unimaginative. The minions and the middlemen. Don’t forget what I told you about Hydra’s founder, the Red Skull. And when Pearce took down S.H.I.E.L.D., his people managed to grab a whole number of things that have no business being out there in the world. Things that will make those weapons of Malekith’s look like water pistols.” 

M finds herself almost longing for the days when the most MI-6 had to worry about were terrorist organizations looking to get their hands on weapons of mass destruction. Not things from outer space, let alone mythology. 

She braces herself.

“Such as?”

“Loki’s scepter, for one. Equal to the tesseract in power, I suspect, if we knew what to do with it. It’s the thing that turned Barton into a robot, as well as that Swedish scientist who helped Thor and Jane Foster save Greenwich. Plus, we have no idea where the liquid crystal that powered Malekith ended up. Infinity stones, these things are called. Any one of them could end civilization as we know it.” 

“So could a badly-placed political leader.”

M cannot resist. _Infinity stones._ Ridiculous. Fury does have a tendency towards the dramatic. That said, recent history has shown threat levels to have been grossly under-estimated, including by her own organization. She injects her voice with an appropriately acidic touch. 

“I suppose you will want MI-6 to pursue this, given that S.H.I.E.L.D. is hardly in a position to do so anymore? Since Congress has classified you as a terrorist organization, I doubt that you are at the top of their funding priorities.” 

Fury mutters something that sounds like a ‘not really’, but rather more elaborate and profane. He rallies quickly, though. 

“Nah, we got that one, Director. Captain America has a personal axe to grind with Hydra, and he and the rest of the Avengers have the muscle to take out their remaining bases. It’s about time these guys become a more permanent team, and Barton and Romanoff are expected to join them when they’re done with you. I sent Hill in to coordinate from inside Stark Industries; Stark is willing to bankroll the team. So that’s all set.”

M, who has always been keenly interested in protecting her mandate – turf, if you wish – finds herself disproportionately relieved. While she should perhaps, resent to have MI-6’s capacities essentially dismissed, branching out into the cosmic and the occult might be a hard sell to the Committee on Security and Intelligence. 

Still. Who is Fury to relegate her organization to the mundane? 

“I suppose you would prefer for us to play that game of ‘ _whack-a-mole’_ , as you put it, with all those multinationals that are crossing the line into organized crime or subversion?” 

Fury shrugs.

“Isn’t that what you do now? Happy to give you some leads. As your Mr. Bond says, Stark’s rolodex would be a good place to start.” 

M snorts. He’s not wrong, of course, but there is no chance she would admit that. And she will not take crumbs. 

“I believe we shall focus for now on the group Hawley was trying to merge with. It strikes me that anyone setting up shop on a haunted island is not solely interested in business. _Spectre_ , they call themselves, I am told. A most peculiar group.” 

She waits for him to say something, but he doesn’t. It occurs to her that maybe Nicholas Fury has run finally – if likely temporarily – run out of things to say, or do. 

And so, on the spur of the moment, she makes him an offer MI-6 will almost certainly come to regret. 

“I understand that you yourself may need to lie low for a while, Director Fury. Why not come to Europe? I can neither confirm nor deny this, of course, but we _may_ have secured your old helicarrier. Purely for study purposes, you understand. You could conceivably help us fix it up.”

 

 

 

 

_Moneypenny_

 

Eve rubs the ligature marks on her wrists, and lets her eyes wander to the window. Outside, a number of crows are headed across the Thames, black wings cutting through the leaden sky. What do they call a grouping of crows again? A murder?

Out of habit, she counts: One, two, three, four … five. No, six. _Five for silver, six for gold..._

Not inappropriate to recent events – and maybe a sign of hope? It would, of course, be insufferably naïve to believe that by exposing a handful of politicians and blowing up a gathering in Venice, Bond and Barton had done more than momentarily divert that toxic, illegal undertow in the world’s economy.

But what about her own abduction? Surely that had nothing to do with Hydra, or Quantum, or any of the other organizations engaged in drawing profits from the world’s catastrophes. Why jeopardize a major operation just to bait – and presumably sideline - a single agent? 

Of course, Agent Barton’s experience in Kaliningrad is an example of precisely that. If you’re important enough … But Barton is an Avenger. What is Bond to _Spectre_?

 _Does not compute,_ her mind repeats, as if on a loop. 

But perhaps, if all politics are local, maybe all crime is, in the end, personal. The destruction of New York and Greenwich boiled down to a family squabble, and vengeance for perceived personal slights. Captain America’s near-downfall in Washington was brought about by his closest friend - the harder to make him feel the fall. 

The fact is, someone tried to use her to lure 007 into … not exactly a trap, but a situation in which he’d be compromised. As compromised as he had been with Vesper, and ever since. It was only thanks to Natasha Romanoff that they’d never gotten that chance.

Maybe if Bond had come to Poveglia, as that mysterious group had intended, they’d both be dead now? Best not to think about that; some things are better not examined under the cold light of day.

  
As she watches, a seventh bird joins the others, flapping lazily across the grey waters.

 _Seven for a secret, never to be told._

Eve shivers a little.

 

 


End file.
